Set in Darkness
by Viridescent
Summary: Committing murder at the tender age of eleven had a bigger effect on the Light's Saviour than Dumbledore imagined. Awarding House Points and giving him cake are not what he needed, nor wanted. Watch as those who were supposed to protect Harry ignore the signs of the tormented boy unwillingly falling to the temptation of darkness.
1. Prologue

Yeah, yeah.. I haven't even really gotten into my other two and I'm starting a new one. This one didn't really walk into my head. The inspiration came from _Solace in Shadows_ , a fic by The Fictionist (if you haven't read her stuff already, ignore this fic and go read _SiS_ or _Fate's Favourite_ , they're bleeding incredible). But then come back and read mine xD

Anyhoo. This story has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with _SiS_ and I doubt that they will be similar in any way.. except for the time frame and the characters.. and a couple themes, perhaps. It just... comes from my attempt to explain how I see their relationship working out, were the tale to go this way. How original can a Tom/Harry fic be in 2015? I mean... with over 700k HP stories on , we must have exhausted all options here by now! But I digress... there should be some original goings on in here, and I sincerely hope that it is not hated. As always.. we writers like reviews. Hope you enjoy :)

 **DISCLAIMER:** This will be the only one I will post for the story. I own nothing, no characters, no locations, no nothing. All belongs to JKRowling, Warner Bros. and any other affiliates that I cannot think of right now. All that I own is my original ideas which do not appear in the original series. Also.. some actions and dialogue in this chapter - and forthcoming chapters - do not belong to me.

* * *

 _"Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;_

 _I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."_

* * *

 **Prologue**

* * *

"Harry Potter..." the snake-like face jutting out in a grotesque fashion from Quirrell's head spoke, a high, quality to it, even behind the deathly rasp. Horror at what he was seeing caused him to take an involuntary step back, but shock and terror kept him rooted to the spot.

"See what I have become?" the hideous face said, his voice echoing around the hollow room. "Mere shadow and vapor ... I have form only when I can share another's body... but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds... Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks... you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest... and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own... Now... why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"

Control of his legs returned to Harry as the Dark Lord's words washed over him, and he registered what was said. Voldemort knew. He knew he Harry had the Stone. He took an unsteady step back.

"Don't be a fool," snarled the face as it twisted into a smile, as if he was amused at Harry's audacity to try to refuse. "Better save your own life and join me... or you'll meet the same end as your parents... They died begging me for mercy…"

"LIAR!" Harry shouted, anger swelling up inside him at the insult to his parents' memory.

"How touching..." the back of the two-headed man hissed, his smile growing wider as Quarrel stepped backwards, towards Harry. "I always value bravery... Yes, boy, your parents were brave... I killed your father first; and he put up a courageous fight... but your mother needn't have died... she was trying to protect you... Now give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain."

"NEVER!"

Without waiting for a reply, Harry spun and hurtled towards the flaming door, intent on escaping, but Voldemort screamed to his host, "SEIZE HIM!"

The next second, Harry felt Quirrell's hand close tightly around his wrist, and he was flung back, away from his own trajectory. The shock of the force pulling him back was nothing compared to the searing pain that shot through his scar, threatening to rip his head open, and his free hand flew to his forehead… as if attention to the agony might lessen the yelled, struggling against the overwhelming burn on his forehead with all his might to release himself from Quirrell's grip. To his surprise, however, it was his traitorous Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher who seemed to almost willingly let go of him.

The pain in his head didn't dissipate entirely, but it lessened enough that Harry's vision was no longer impaired by blinding flashes of white. He looked around wildly to see where Quirrell had gone, and saw him hunched in pain, looking at his wrists and hands - they were blistering before his eyes.

"Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" shrieked Voldemort again, losing all semblance of control and command in his desperation to rid of the Boy-Who-Lived and claim the Stone for himself. Yet Quirrell lunged, throwing Harry to the ground and landing on top of him, both hands around Harry's neck. Winded, Harry could not find enough breath to fight back. Again, his scar burned as if a fire had been lit beneath his very skin, radiating across his face and nigh on blinding him… yet he could see Quirrell howling in agony.

"Master, I cannot hold him - my hands - my hands!" Dimly registering the words that his teacher screamed, Harry's gaze shot to Quirrell's hands, which had now been removed from around his neck and were held above his face. The boy's eyes widened in horror. The skin was red and cracking, as if dried out.

"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" screeched Voldemort desperately. Quirrell raised his hand, eyes flashing with pain and fury. Instinct told Harry that the next spell aimed at him would kill him. And Instinct told Harry to reach out and grab the traitor's face.

"AAAARGH!" The blood-curdling scream almost had Harry release his grip, but adrenaline caused him to maintain his grip. Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and then Harry knew: Quirrell couldn't touch his bare skin, not without suffering terrible pain - his only chance at survival was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in enough pain to stop him from acting.

Harry jumped to his feet and reached out to grab Quirrell by the arm, and hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed and tried to throw Harry off. The pain in the boy wizard's head was building again to an unbearable level, but he endured. Survival, living, was all that mattered. He could no longer see, but he could hear Quirrell's terrible shrieks, telling him that whatever protective, unconscious magic that was surging through Harry was still working.

Voldemort's yells of, "KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" could be heard amidst the terrible screams. Other voices joined the cacophony, though Harry was not sure that these new voices were real. "Harry! Harry!"

He felt Quirrell's arm wrenched from his grasp, knew all was lost. Exhaustion seeped through his core… he could not summon up the energy to grasp Quirrell again. This was it. He had failed. Darkness claimed him, and he welcomed it.

* * *

Something gold was glinting just above him. The Snitch! He tried to catch it, but his arms were still too heavy, as if refusing to respond to his commands.

He blinked, and his hazy gaze focused ever so slightly. It wasn't the Snitch at all. It was a pair of glasses. He frowned and blinked again. The smiling face of Albus Dumbledore swam into view above him… and his frown deepened.

"Good afternoon, Harry," Dumbledore said quietly, a sombre tone that the boy had not expected from the normally jovial, twinkly-eyed warlock.

"Sir," was his detached reply, as he lay his head back down against his pillow and stared up at the white ceiling of the hospital wing. Silence reigned, and Harry got the distinct impression that Dumbledore would not leave until he was satisfied with… something. "It was Voldemort," he whispered, "Voldemort was in Quirrell. He wanted the Stone."

"I know, dear boy," said Dumbledore. "Voldemort does not have the Stone."

Harry inclined his head. But there was one far more important. "Quirrell..?"

"Is no longer with us, my dear boy." the Headmaster replied, and Harry thought he detected a sliver of pride entering the old man's voice. He nodded again, trying to ignore the knot that was building in his stomach. He felt sick.

"Tokens from your friends and admirers," said Dumbledore, and Harry finally raised his head slightly to turn his emerald gaze to where the older wizard now stood, surprised at the sudden change in tone. His eyes fell upon a wide selection of colourful candy boxes. He was practically beaming.

"What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it."

He nodded again. Someone was dead. Dead because of him.

"Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger will be most relieved you have come round, they have been extremely worried."

"What happened to the Stone, Sir?" His voice was almost entirely devoid of emotion as he asked the question, still trying to fight against the bubbling nausea. He could not think of his friends, not after what he had just done.

"I see you are not to be distracted," Dumbledore replied, the jovial tone still present. "Very well, the Stone. Professor Quirrell did not manage to take it from you. I arrived in time to prevent that, although you were doing very well on your own, I must say."

"I couldn't have kept him off the Stone much longer…"

"Not the Stone, boy, you - the effort involved nearly killed you…" Dumbledore continued to speak, but Harry heard none of it, his stomach clenching again at the reminder that he had killed in order to survive. "…had been destroyed."

"Destroyed?" said Harry blankly, returning to the conversation, and Dumbledore nodded his affirmation, eyes still twinkling. "Flamel will die?"

"Oh, you know about Nicolas?" said Dumbledore, sounding quite delighted as he returned to the side of Harry's bed and took the liberty of perching on the edge of it. "You did do the thing properly, didn't you? Well, Nicolas and I have had a little chat, and agreed it's all for the best."

"But Voldemort didn't die." He knew the answer to this, and stated it more as fact than a question. Why was he still talking? All he wanted to do was to sleep. Sleep and forget.

"No, Harry, he did not. He is still out there somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to share... not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his followers as his enemies. Nevertheless, Harry, while you may only have delayed his return to power, it will merely take someone else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing battle next time - and if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never return to power."

"Why would he want to kill me when I was a baby?"

Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time. "Alas, this one question I cannot give you the answer to. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day... put it from your mind for now, Harry."

The eleven year old rested his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. He didn't like the answer, and that was probably evident from his facial expression. He deserved more. He deserved an answer, especially after what he'd been though, after what he'd **_done_**. But he didn't have the will to argue.

Dumbledore tried to placate him, condescending … as though he were just an old man talking to an ordinary pre-teen child. "When you are older... I know you hate to hear this... when you are ready, you will know-"

"-I'm sorry, Sir, but I think I would like to go back to sleep now…"

Dumbledore didn't even miss a beat, and his answer was just as buoyant as before. "Yes, Harry, rest well… for the end of year feast will not be a celebration that you should want to miss." He stood, bowed, and left Harry with nothing but his own tormenting thoughts for company.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N:** New chapter :3 I received a review (which seems to have been deleted now) about looking forward to seeing me develop the story in my own path. I'm afraid that some of the dialogue and scenes will remain the same throughout the fic, as it will, for the most part, remain true to the books. However as we get further and further into the tale, you will notice more things slowly changing, and of course there will be original scenes thrown in or, say, lessons which go vastly different from what we already know. Of course, with the butterfly effect, this will affect my own story dramatically. This chapter should give hints as to where the fic follows the original series and where it begins to diverge. The biggest change, of course, is Harry's outlook, and that will be the driving factor in where this tale will take us. Hope you enjoy. Also please review if you have the chance.. reviews are like oxygen to us writers.

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

* * *

Twelve years old. Harry Potter was twelve years old and not one person had wished him a happy birthday. The only person who had even acknowledged it had been his sneering cousin, who had been intent on mocking him over the fact that he hadn't received a single card. At the time, Harry had brushed it off with a few choice comments of his own… but he would be damned if he ever showed Dudley how much it hurt him that none of his friends had sent him anything.

Lack of contact thus far over the summer was hurtful enough - he might not be able to use Hedwig, but he knew full well that Ron's family had an owl, and Hermione was bright enough to find a way to get in contact…

Today of all days, though, it hurt more, and he wondered if he had been forgotten by his two best friends. It wasn't much after that thought that a second drifted into his mind - a thought which he instantly tried to discard. It was a stubborn thought, however, and it lingered, as it had for the past month or so.

He deserved it.

Ron and Hermione were the only two who knew the truth about what had happened in the depths of the castle that night, and though they had said nothing to him, he _knew._ He knew of the repulsion they must have felt for what he had done, for he felt it for himself.

Entering his room after listening to threats of a swift and painful punishment from his uncle should he ruin the dinner he was hosting downstairs, Harry stopped short at the hideous looking creature on his bed. Standing less than two feet in height, with nothing more than a filthy rag of a pillowcase covering him, it turned as Harry pushed his door open. Instantly, it jumped off of his bed and, hitting the floor, bowed low.

"Harry Potter!" said the creature in a high-pitched voice Harry was sure would carry down the stairs. "So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir ... Such an honour it is . . . ."

Harry said nothing as he stared at the bizarre little creature in his room. Logic told him that it was from the magical world, and the creature's first words made that more obvious - only those from his new world knew of his name.

The silence dragged on, and eventually the elf rose from his bow, an uncertain gaze marring his previously delighted expression at meeting the hero of the wizarding world. "Dobby has come to tell you, sir... it is difficult, sir... Dobby wonders where to begin…"

"What do you want?" Harry prompted, not unkindly, but his tone was not particularly polite or good-natured either.

"Dobby heard tell," the creature said hoarsely, with an element of the excited nature that Harry had earlier seen returning, "that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time just weeks ago ... that Harry Potter escaped yet again. "

Harry nodded in response, his throat catching at the memory, and Dobby's eyes suddenly shone with tears. "Ah, sir," he gasped out, wiping at his wet eyes with a corner of the ripped pillowcase he was adorned with. Harry glanced away as the rag rolled upwards, his nose wrinkling into an expression close to disgust. "Harry Potter is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later... Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts."

The silence that fell over the room was broken only by the noise of cutlery chinking against china, and the high0pitched shriek of a laugh from his aunt. A reminder of where Harry was, with a filthy magical creature, in the house of those who hated and feared magic more than anyone else. The corners of his lips twisted into a sadistic smirk at the thought that his relatives had no idea something so revolting was int heir house.

"No, no, no," squeaked Dobby desperately, clearly mistaking the smirk for the assumption that he must be making the whole thing up. "Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger."

"Why?" was all Harry said in response, eyes narrowed. This creature, dressed as he was, couldn't be important in the wizarding world, and Harry shrewdly wondered how it had come by such… _secret_ information.

"There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year," whispered Dobby, suddenly trembling all over. "Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!"

"What terrible things?" said Harry at once. "Who's plotting them?"

The elf-creature made a funny choking noise and then banged his head frantically against the wall. Harry's eyes darted to the door, as he distantly heard the slowing of conversation downstairs, and he instinctively reached out to grab the small creature, drawing him away from the wall. "Don't do that again." He practically hissed in response, and the creature, wide-eyes, nodded, tears forming in his eyes again.

Staring at the forlorn critter, who was still held tightly by the pillowcase in Harry's hand, he decided that he didn't have the energy, nor the patience, to riddle through the answers that he wanted. He didn't even know if the varmint was even telling the truth.

"Alright." He said slowly, staring intently into the creature's eyes, which widened even more. "If you do something for me."

It nodded fervently, "Anything for Mister Harry Potter, Sir!"

Harry smiled tightly as his plan formed in his head, and he released Dobby, he remembered the name was. "You obviously didn't walk into the house through the front door, which means you must have some ability to… teleport?" The creature nodded enthusiastically.

The birthday boy turned and grabbed a pencil and a scrap receipt - one of the many remnants of the plethora of old gifts that Dudley had received and subsequently broken. All receipts were now kept in an effort to return them for a refund or exchange. This one was year old, evident from the faded print of barely visible numbers and letters.

He wrote to Ron, hoping he was having a good summer, before hedging around the abysmal one he was having, and ending it with a vague note that he would see him soon. Glancing over it, the two lines might be seen as passive-egressive, but Harry knew that Ron wasn't empathetic enough to read into it that way. He folded it up and handed it to the waiting creature.

"You found my house so I assume you can find others. Give this to Ronald Weasley, please."

Dobby nodded quickly, "and you won't go back to Hogwarts in September?" he asked once again, eyes practically glowing with trust and adoration.

Wordlessly, Harry inclined his head and watched as Dobby disappeared with a low crack. The boy-wizard felt no shame at lying to the little, grubby creature in his room, as long as it would get him to leave. He doubted that it was even telling the truth about some… _plot_ … what could it know about such things? The image of Voldemort's terrifying face floated through his mind, and he knew that nothing could be worse than what he had faced in the caverns below the Third Floor. Lying… he'd done worse.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N:** This chapter was supposed to include the visit to Diagon Alley but including that would have made a very long chapter (well my chapters aren't that long but I think 1-2k per chapter is an acceptable length for the average reader). Anyway, not much happens, other than a bit of set up here... and most of it is me trying to fix a mistake that was flagged up in the last chapter - it was thought that Harry's attitude changed too quickly, and he became too cold and manipulative. That wasn't the impression I was trying to convey, more that Harry just _doesn't_ care. At this stage, he doesn't have the energy to care about Dobby, even to ask what he is. It's indifference.

I didn't want to labour that point too much, because I sometimes feel like dragging it out and going too deeply into the description of emotions with no action gets a bit much for me.. almost cliché, but clearly I didn't even explain it at all, so I went too far the other way... hopefully this gives a better job and at some point I might try to re-write chapter 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

* * *

The next few days passed in a flurry of chores and Harry, for the most part, was ignored by his relatives. Uncle Vernon's lack of attention, especially, was a relief, and Harry knew that his schmoozing must have gone well. The lack of negative attention did nothing for Harry's own mood, however, which dropped lower and lower with each passing day as the silence between himself and his friends continued to stretch.

Six days after the elf-creature Dobby was found in Harry's room with warnings of threats to his life, Harry found a familiar letter atop a small pile of post on the doormat. One, which was, of course, addressed to him. Remembering last year, this letter he opened in the hall, and he found his textbook and equipment list for his second year at Hogwarts.

A frown settled over his emerald orbs as he wondered how to approach his aunt and uncle about taking him into London to collect the necessities for his arcane learning… or at least lending him the money. It didn't take him long to decide against it entirely, instead shoving the letter into the back pocket of his baggy jeans, knowing his over-sized t-shirt would cover it.

The other letters, he brought through to his uncle before returning to his toast. He didn't really want it, but his aunt was under the impression that the house was being watched, thus she was ensuring that he was getting at least two meals a day. They were small meals, and they tasted of nothing, but it was an improvement, definitely.

"We want you out of the house today, boy," Harry didn't even glance up from his glass of water as he took a sip, only nodding as he replaced it on the table and taking another bite out of his toast. "Dudley needs a new school uniform, after all the muscle he's put on from his sports," came the unwanted explanation, and Harry was glad of the distraction of food to halt the snort of derision that threatened to burst through. Vernon's eyes narrowed, but Harry didn't look up to notice. That could have been another reason that much of the abuse had slowed: punishable transgressions were few and far between now, with Harry's apathy. More importantly, the indifference that the boy wizard displayed meant that much intimidation went unnoticed.

At least the weather was good, he decided, knowing that there would be no shelter for him until the Dursleys returned with Dudley's new school uniform and Merlin only knew what else. Stuffing the last of his breakfast into his mouth, Harry stood up with his glass and plate and placed them in the kitchen sink. He'd deal with them later. "See you later," he muttered.

Without waiting for a response, he trudged out of the room and down to the front door, making a quick escape into the crisp morning air. A momentary shiver passed through his arms and torso as the cold winds hit him, but the deep azure of the morning sky gave him hope for a warm day, and he decided not to return into the house for a jacket.

Slowly, his steps took him away from Number 4 Privet Drive and he made his way through an alleyway, towards where he knew a park would be empty at this time in the morning. He would have a couple of hours there before mothers brought their children there to play in the sun.

* * *

His feet brushed lightly against the ground as he sat on a swing. He had pulled his letter out again and was staring at it intently, as if it might suddenly give him the answers to his predicament of going to London and buying his new books and equipment.

"Harvey, dear boy! You're out early." Harry glanced up, quickly crumpling his Hogwarts letter in his hand as an elderly woman approached, wicker basket in hand. It probably contained a cat, too.

"Good morning, Mrs. Figg." Harry greeted, trying - and failing, to summon up some enthusiasm into his voice as his old former child minder came to a halt in font of him. The sun, ever increasing its height in the sky, glared at him from behind the woman's form, and he turned away.

The silence dragged on, and the shadow over the ground in front of Harry made it clear that the woman hadn't moved. He kicked at the dusty ground with his shoe. He heard the sound of an approaching, optimistically early ice cream van. "How're your aunt and uncle, Hadley?" Go away.

It was a strange sensation: Harry knew, logically, that he was borderline overwhelmed by the emotions surging through him. The difficulty was that he could not give a name to any of them, such that they all merged together, an almost indistinguishable swirl.

Despite this the Boy-Who-Lived was surprised that he was able to maintain even a modicum of a sociable, pleasant persona. "They're well, thanks." Though it felt like every word took an absurd amount of energy to speak… and the effort to smile was insurmountable.

Somewhere, a listless curiosity questioned why he was bothering to be the polite little boy that this woman remembered him to be. He wondered why he didn't ignore her, or tell her bluntly to leave him alone. He would get away with it too; it would be passed off as a preteen attitude. He didn't even _like_ the woman. So what if she thought him to be rude.

But a small part of him hated the idea of someone forming the same option of him that his aunt and uncle held. "They have taken Dudley to get a new school uniform."

"Ah yes, your cousin goes to Smeltings?" Harry nodded. "I remember, Petunia said how well he was doing there. Lovely school I hear. And how about you, Harold? Your aunt told me that you were attending a boarding school… somewhere in the north? Are you enjoying it?" Another nod, this one accompanied by half a smile.

"I hope you're making the most of it, young man. Your education is very important, for who will you be if you don't learn all you can?" A murderer. The silence dragged on. Had Harry looked up, he would have been witness to a saddened expression on the ditzy woman's face. "Well… it's been very quiet without your visits to me. It's lovely to have you home and to see you again, dear boy…"

She paused, groping around in her wicker basket for a moment before pulling out a piece of paper and shoving it into Harry's hand, which rested loosely on the chain of the swing chair. "The cats have missed you… It's a lovely day, let me buy you some ice cream. Please, come and visit me before you go back to school, Harris." The shadow left him, and Harry glanced up to look at the note in his hand, and his eyes went wide.

"Wait, Mrs. Figg, I-" but she was toddling off out of the park, and Harry didn't have the energy to go after her, lest she extend the conversation. The boy wizard glanced back down at the £20 note in his hand. It was far too much for a single ice cream. The woman was batty… he didn't even want an ice cream, not with his agitated stomach since returning to Little Whinging. It had been hard enough to eat a slice of toast.

But the money… the money was enough to get into London and back. He looked up and gazed after the small, retreating silhouette of his former babysitter, a frown settling onto his face. After a few minutes, he stood and trudged down the path away from the children's play park. When he reached Diagon Alley, he had the option of exchanging his galleons for sterling, then he could repay her.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Hello all! Massive thank you to all people who have favourited or followed this story, and a bigger thank you to those who have reviewed. But to all people who have read and given attention to this story, I'm so very grateful - knowing that people are enjoying it makes me want to write more. So hugs and kisses for that! I'm afraid this is a sort of boring chapter, but it is the beginning of what will become an important theme for Harry, relating to Dumbledore... and then an accelerated (if very brief) meeting of one of our favourite characters. After this... the journey to Hogwarts and the beginnings of the year. My biggest issue is how much time I want to spend on Second Year in this fic. Given the choice, I would skip the whole thing, but then I wouldn't get to explore the beginnings of Harry's mental state :(

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

* * *

Save for the occasional curious look from fellow travellers and commuters, Harry's journey into London was an uneventful one. Having only been on the London Underground a handful of times, Harry must have looked like a tourist, a foreigner to most - worst, a child on his own, lost as he stared at the maps of the underground. He supposed, though, that he was a foreigner in this Muggle world, even if he had only really left it for a year. He had never been at home here… no, his relatives had made sure of that.

But entering the loud bustle of Diagon Alley (which, in reality, wasn't much different from the bustle of Muggle London), Harry instantly felt a wave of relief wash over him as he as he was engulfed by the aura of magic.

For the first time, he felt naked, surrounded by witches and wizards who were all equipped by wands. His was still locked in the cupboard under the stairs, something that had only occurred to him when he had had to ask the barkeep to let him through the stone passageway. Taking a deep breath, the Boy Who Lived pulled his hoodie hood up over his head, hiding the distinctive mop of black hair and lightning scar, before stepping into the Alley and heading to Gringotts Bank in order to remove some money from his vault.

An unremarkable visit, this time Harry was not shocked by the appearance - or even the existence - of the goblins. This time, he found himself unconsciously taking more in, and he was relieved to observe that the goblins were not interested in the affairs of wizards. They knew who he was, yes, but they did not fall over themselves to thank him for something that he couldn't even remember.

The idea of having complete strangers insist on shaking his hand and praising him for lying in his cot whilst his mother and father died for him was sickening. The sacrifice they had given… Harry stepped out of Gringotts, once again throwing his hood over his head and keeping his figure hunched.

The sacrifice they had given for a murderer.

Harry swallowed, an attempted to slow the bile that rose up from his churning stomach. Getting new robes fitted wasn't probably the most advisable… but it would take the longest and he wanted it out of the way. He regretted entering the shop and lowering his hood instantly, when he recognised his brunette housemate atop a stool, being measured. Harry turned.

"Harry!" The boy wizard closed his eyes and counted to five, before turning to face Neville, a smile forced upon his lips. He greeted the other Gryffindor and one of Madam Malkin's assistance, who directed him to stand on the stool beside Harry.

"How's your summer been. Harry? Did you have a good birthday?"

He nodded on both counts, not trusting himself to speak, lest he answer the boy truthfully. Without prompting, Neville jumped into a tale of his own birthday, which had been a few days before Harry's. The silent boy nodded at all the right moments, but could not have repeated any of what was said if he'd been offered a thousand galleons.

Instead, he was reflective of the change that Neville had gone though. To his knowledge, those ten points at the end of the year was all Neville had ever earned for the House of Lions, and it had been a confidence boost. His points were well deserved… much like Ron and Hermione's.

 _If you hadn't done it, Voldemort would have gotten the Stone._ For the first time, a small voice of reason spoke from the back of his mind, and he wondered what had spurred it into life. _He would have returned. He would have been invincible._ _Immortal._

"Neville?" Harry waited until there was a slight lull in his housemate's monologue until he finally spoke. When he did, he voice was low, quiet, but the other boy still heard him. "Are there Dark Lords other than Voldemort?"

"What, you mean like Grindelwald?" Neville's voice was just as animated as before, clearly unperturbed by the sudden shift in conversation.

"Grindelwald?" came Harry's confused response as he turned around at the seamstress' command so that she could pin the back of his new robes. "I've never heard of him…"

"Well he's in prison now, since Professor Dumbledore defeated him. Been there for some fifty years I think." Neville craned his head as he smiled over at Harry, "Anyway, you grew up in the Muggle world - how would you know about that?"

"Dumbledore defeated him? Not kill?" For the first time in a very long time, a hint of emotion slipped into his voice, manifesting in a tone of incredulity at the knowledge that Dumbledore had neutralised, but not killed, another Dark Lord. Why, then, would people praise him for destroying another if there was a different way?

"Are you still not finished here, Neville?" A shrill, stern voice interrupted the other boy's reply and Harry twisted to see the owner of the new voice, and was met by what he imagined to be the embodiment of aristocracy… or a farcical version of it. It was an odd dichotomy of old, clearly expensive clothing that had clearly seen better days. To Harry, it looked like a tacky effort, but he wondered that perhaps the woman had never moved on from an earlier year.

"We're almost finished, Mrs Longbottom," replied Madam Malkin, who was working on Neville's robes. Harry hissed and jumped as a pin pricked against his ankle, and all attention turned to him. The shop owner raised a brow, "If you'd stop being so nosy, Mister Potter, and turn around so that my assistant can finish her work, you will be free to go in a minute too."

The Potter Scion flushed pink as he turned. Silence reigned for a few minuted until both boys were free to go. "Harry, this is my grandmother, Augusta Longbottom."

"Harry, a pleasure to meet you," the green-eyed boy extended his hand to shake the woman's as she offered hers, "Neville and I were going to treat ourselves to an ice-cream while we waited for the robes to be ready. Would you care to join us?"

"Oh… I, thank you but I have to buy my books and-"

"Nonsense, dear boy." Mrs Longbottom was having none of it as she ushered the two twelve year olds out of the shop and merely across the road to Fortescue's. Noting Harry's wide-eyed confusion at the names of the scoops on offer, the old woman sighed. "Take a seat, boys. I'll get a small selection of ice-creams."

Turned out that the _small_ selection was anything but, and it was only Mrs Longbottom's stern insistence that Harry should try each flavour that had the inexperienced boy slowly forcing his way through small spoonfuls of each.

"So Neville tells me you're a good flyer, Harry?" The boy nodded in silence, staring resolutely at a small chip in the glass table. He dreaded the moment where he would be inevitably be compared to- "Your father would be proud." There is was. He nodded again.

"What about classes? Do you have any favourites?"

Using the excuse of tasting a particularly odd mix of butterscotch and mint ice-cream, Harry mulled over the question. If he was truthful, all of it - with the exception of History of Magic - was interesting. Some classes were more challenging than others, but that made them all the more interesting. "I like wandwork…"

"I suppose you would, growing up in the Muggle world. Though I hear you have a knack for Potions, just like your mother." Glancing up, Harry's mouth, which had opened to disagree, snapped shut in surprise. No one had ever compared him to his mother… even if the comparison was wrong. A sensation of warmth was fighting against the perpetual guilt for dominance at the woman's revealing statement.

"Yes, Lily would often help my daughter-in-law, Neville's mother Alice, in Potions. They were in the same year, and Alice would return the favour with more intricate knowledge of Herbology." The woman's stern face morphed into a rather affectionate smile as she looked over to her grandson, "it's where you get your own skill from."

Neville ducked his head at the compliment, having only ever been compared to his father, and always in a negative way, rather than his mother. "Thanks, Gran."

"Well you've always had a way with plants, and a practically encyclopaedic knowledge of their properties. I just don't understand why that knowledge isn't transferrable to Potions." Neville, previously flushed with a mix of embarrassment and pleasure, instantly went pale at the reminder of the hell that awaited him every day in the dungeons.

Harry remained silent; he hated the class as much as Neville did… and the only reason they hated it was because of the despicable man that they were forced to call Professor.

"Augusta, Neville!" Three heads turned in unison to see man in his middle forties and his teenage son approaching, "Merlin's Beard, and Harry Potter!" The black haired boy's stomach dropped, and he glanced around quickly, glad when he realised that no one else seemed to have head the man.

"Amos, I hope you are well. Harry, this is Amos Diggory, he works at the Ministry, and his son, Cedric. Would you like to join us?"

"Oh, no, Augusta, thank you. We have a busy schedule, but thought we'd pop over to say hi." When the man's eyes landed on him, Harry quickly glanced away, getting the distinct impression that he had been recognised earlier, and _he_ was the reason for Amos' approach.

"See you back at school, Ced," Neville waved the teenager off and turned to Harry, "Cedric goes to Hogwarts - he's in Hufflepuff House. Going into his fourth year I think. He's a really good guy, been friends for years." Neville reached forward and scraped the last of the ice-cream onto his spoon and licked it clean.

"He is," Mrs Longbottom said as Harry silently watched the retreating form of the Hufflepuff, "I have ample time for that boy. He will go far."


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Okay another not so interesting chapter. To be honest, I'm not really sure where I want to go with Snape. I have a core plot down (beginning and middle, though no ending as of yet) though I'm scared that if I bring in too many character dynamics then I'll lose the focus of what this tale was all about. We'll see how se go, I suppose.

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

* * *

He was late. Very late. Craning his head behind the driver's seat, Harry glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard of Uncle Vernon's car: 10:40, and they were just pulling into the car park. His feet drummed impatiently against the floor of the car.

His uncle, of course, appeared not to have a care in the world, clearly enjoying his passive antagonising of his unwanted ward. Even Harry's irritated huffs appeared to not be getting to him, as he hummed, taking his time over deciding which parking space he liked the look of the most. Finally pulling up, the boy wizard was out of the car and had pulled his trunk free of the boot before his uncle had even unclasped his seatbelt.

"Don't forget your bird, boy," the beefy man muttered as he grabbed the wire mesh cage from the back seat and shoved it into Harry's arms. "I'll get you a trolley…"

But Harry was no longer listening for, on the far side of the car park (the side closest to the station) he had spotted the distinctive red of seven heads: the Weasleys. He shouted to grab his best friend's attention, but they were too far away and were all hurrying, clearly also worried about the time.

"Right, boy," growled his hateful uncle as he heaved the trunk onto the trolley, "If I see you any sooner than July…" The threat was left unspoken and Harry nodded as he glanced up at the man. His uncle didn't care if he missed his train - he would not be going home either way, it seemed.

"Now get going." Harry needed no further encouragement, and left without even uttering a 'thank you' in Uncle Vernon's direction. From somewhere, the boy found a last reserve of energy and pelted his way across the car park.

Seven minutes to go, he saw from the large flashing clock as he entered Kings Cross Station. Ahead, he once again saw the rushing figures of his best friend and his family, and that was where he lost crucial seconds, for his ticket fell out of his hand, causing the muggle public to jeer in irritation. Grabbing it, he flashed it at the ticket attendant - he assumed each ticket had been magically warded to appear like a normal ticket when seen by muggles - and passed through the barrier.

Five minutes. Now, his task had grown exponentially more difficult, for luck seemed to he laughing at him today: platform nine had a train waiting to depart, so passengers were rushing to get on it before the whistle blew, and the train at platform ten had just arrived and passengers were disembarking. Navigating at speed through the crowd was difficult for even the most experienced of public-weaving commuters, but Harry was not experienced, and he was in possession of a three foot wide trunk and an owl.

Two minutes. The Boy Who Lived couldn't even remember which archway was the one he wanted. There! Up ahead he saw the gangly figures of the twins, just as they disappeared. Three columns to go. "'Scuse me… sorry… 'scuse me…"

Harry didn't bother calling out again as he watched the final Weasley - Ron - disappear through the arch, knowing that he would never be heard over the departing of the train from platform nine.

Less than a minute. Harry smiled with relief as he reached the barrier and -

CRASH.

The trolley hit the barrier and bounced backward. Harry's trunk fell off to the left of the trolley with a loud thump, and Hedwig's cage bounced in the opposite direction, it's precious cargo shrieking indignantly. Harry, having just tumbled over the front of the trolly's handlebars himself, watched in horror as the cylinder-shaped cage rolled dangerously close to the train tracks from where the train had just departed, until a train guard quickly scooped it up.

"What in blazes d'you think you're doing?" the man said, a thunderous expression on his face as he turned his attention from the owl to its owner.

"Lost control of the trolley," Harry gasped, clutching his ribs as he got up, though his physical pain was secondary to the fear that had threatened to stop his heart at the thought of endangering his first friend, "I'm sorry, I… thank you."

Harry reached out to take the cage off the man, but a share stabbing pain warned him against that movement and he retracted his arm quickly as he hissed. The train guard's attention went from furious to concerned in a matter of seconds, "Are you alright, lad?"

"Mhmm," was all he trusted himself to reply as he rubbed his side gingerly, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Mostly it was the pain, but his mind was now desperately searching for a solution to his new predicament, having missed the train.

"You were trying to catch the train, weren't you?" Harry confirmed the man's suspicions with a simple nod, and made up some half lie about travelling north to go back to boarding school when asked why he was travelling alone. "Come with me, I'll get you an ice pack for your ribs and you can call your parents," the man said as he reached down to much the fallen trunk back onto the trolley and place Hedwig on top.

Harry's eyes widened in horror at just the notion of Uncle Vernon having to come back and get him from the station, and he shook his head frantically, "I… no, thank you, my uncle… said he was meeting someone here for lunch…"

It was a garbled response, but Harry had taken control of the trolley and was wheeling it off without giving the man a chance to protest at letting a twelve year old wander alone around the largest station in London.

The train guard had given Harry his answer, though , and he left the station at a brisk pace, returning to the far end of the car park, where it was most secluded, to scrawl a letter to the Headmaster of Hogwarts, explaining his predicament. "Please be quick, Hedwig, I know you've been waiting all summer to spread your wings."

* * *

"Get up, Potter."

It was nearing nightfall by the time he finally heard a familiar voice, and Harry, who was slumped with his back against his trunk in the darkest part of the car park, wand held loosely in his hand, felt none of the horror he should have been feeling at the presence of his most despised teacher, such was the relief that flooded him. Stiffly, carefully, the Second Year rose, arm still wrapped around his side, protecting his ribcage.

This ginger movement, of course, did not go unnoticed by the Potions Master, whose own wand was out in an instant as a silent diagnostics charm was cast on the boy. "Not only does the Saviour of the Wizarding World think he's too good to right the train to school like the other students," the man's silky voice was dangerously low, "but he also believes himself to be above muggle assistance. So much so that he is willing to ignore two broken ribs indefinitely, risking further damage."

Harry said nothing as he stared at the orange reflection of a street light on the shiny tarmac ground. He was exhausted, in pain, and (though he would never admit it to his Professor) frightened; muggle London was an entirely different threat to Voldemort, but it was a real one nonetheless.

"Disappointed that it isn't your adoring fan-base to come and rescue you?" Snape continued to taunt, taking his silence for sullenness, as he cast a featherlight charm on the trunk, and bending down to lift it with ease.

"Pick up your owl's cage and then hold on to this," Harry looked up to see Snape stretching out his palm, a tiny muggle toy car resting on his palm. The boy blinked, then glanced up to meet the hard black eyes of his professor. "Now, or I will leave without you."

Still silent, Harry did as told, and waited, with his hand holding the other side of the toy car. A few seconds passed. "What-"

It felt like a hook had been latched around his stomach, pulling him from where he stood. His whole body lurched, his feet flying forwards and his torso screaming in protest as he practically folded in on himself.

Then two hands were pressed firmly against his shoulders, holding him in place as his brain took a moment to register that his feet had met with solid ground again. As he felt the hands give slightly, Harry lurched forward and retched, his stomach trying to remove the nothing that was in it.

"Easy, Potter," Only one hand remained clamped onto his shoulder now, and he was grateful for the support, until his internal organs finally caught up with him and straightened himself out - as much as he could with his throbbing ribs, as the motion of the portkey flared up the diminishing pain all over again.

Looking around, he quickly ascertained from the dark stone walls that he was in the dungeons of Hogwarts. Further inspection and context of present company suggested that it was Snape's office. "Vaisey." Harry glanced around as a small pop announced the arrival of a small creature, looking just like that Dobby, except better dressed. "Take Mister Potter's items to his dormitory, please." The creature bowed without a word and left.

Harry stared languidly at where his trunk stood moments ago and the silence dragged on. Finally, he turned, speaking quietly over his shoulder to his professor as he walked towards the office door, "Thank you, Sir."

"Where do you think you're going, Potter?" The man's tone was cold, but not cruel, and Harry did not stop as he reached the door and pulled on the handle, opening the heavy door slightly.

"To the Feast," he replied dully, though his heart wasn't really in it. All he really wanted was to return to his dormitory and nurse his wounds in peace before sleeping, after the day he had had.

It seemed, for once, that luck was on his side, even if it was revealing itself in a rather unfavourable fashion, as a pale hand came to rest once again against his shoulder, and a sneering voice spoke from behind him. "Not tonight, Potter. We're going straight to the Hospital Wing."


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N:** So next chapter is up. I've been banned from one of my RP websites for calling the admin out on being a tyrant (case and point, eh?) so much more free time to play with my tales. Was thinking of venturing back to my other works at some point, though they require a bit more thought and so haven't gotten round to finding enough time to think about them properly. . In other news.. I think the characters states in this fic suggests that it's going to get interesting at the end of second year, so I might just pick and chose and generally move quickly through the action here to get to the fun stuff. What do you guys think? Also thank you for all the reviews. They make me happy :)

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

* * *

With nigh on everyone in the castle presently tucked away in the Great Hall, the dark corridors were silent, eerily so. All that could be heard were the slow, soft footfalls of a young boy dragging his feet, as if to his execution, and the just as laboured steps of a guard who wanted nothing more than to be elsewhere. Both walked in silence.

Madam Pomfrey was in the Hospital Wing waiting for their arrival, most likely warned by the Headmaster that there would be a late arrival in need of her care tonight, thus causing her to miss the Welcoming Feast. This initial irritation turned into complete exasperation when she noticed who her patient was to be. "Mister Potter, term has not even started yet!"

The youth said nothing as he dutifully meandered over to the bed that the matron was gesturing at for him to sit on under the watchful eve of the resident Potions Master, who appeared to be going nowhere soon.

"Remove your shirt, please, Mister Potter." Harry's eyes flickered over to Snape uncertainly. "Oh, don't be ridiculous, Potter," cam the instant admonishment, "Professor Snape has a torso just the same as you do."

The task of pulling off the tshirt was a laborious one though, for the Gryffindor was not able to lift one of his arms to shoulder height, much less over his head to facilitate the removal of his top. The two adults watched his slow progress in silence, neither moving to help. Though silent, one had a look of impatience forming on his features, where the other's had growing concern.

Finally, the top was removed, and the bruising was obvious and currently red, unsurprising given their age, though no worse than Severus had expected it to be from his quick diagnostics in London.

The mediwitch's reaction as she performed her own, more comprehensive diagnostics spell, however, was much more explosive than the brewer had been expecting. "Does it _ever_ cross your mind to seek out help when you need it, Mister Potter?" The woman practically shrieked at her patient, whose eyes were downcast.

It occurred to the professor, for the first time, that the kindly matron never fully recovered each time she found herself trying desperately to save a child from the cold clutches of death. Severus had been one, years ago, and now the Potter boy… as of the June just gone.

"Poppy, the boy will be fine. The ribs are merely fractured-"

"It's not the ribs I'm worried about, Severus!" Shocked into silence, the Potions Master's eyes narrowed, clearly waiting for the borderline hysterical woman to elaborate, but the only answer he got was a question directed at the twelve year old. "What did you do to your shoulder, Harry?"

The boy in question continued to stare fixedly at a single point on the ground, as if finding endless fascination in a crack in the stonework. The Head of Slytherin took a step forward, quietly asking, "What's wrong with his shoulder?"

Madam Pomfrey looked away from the boy to meet the gaze of the other man, anguish painted all over her face. "His clavicle . It's broken."

The professor blinked, "It can't be, I performed a diagnostics charm, his only recent injuries are-"

"Not recent, Severus." The woman replied, as they both turned back to look at the boy, who had not moved, his face carefully blank, as if not listening, or uncaring as to what was being said. "It's healed."

The black-clad man frowned, evidently confused, "Then there is no concern? A childhood injury is nothing to-"

"I treated this boy myself at the end of last year, _Professor Snape._ Do you truly think that I would have neglected to notice an overlapping break healing incorrectly in the course of my care?" Even Harry, who had been as a statue until this point, flinched at the cold, yet still hysterical, quality to the matron's voice.

The rebuked professor opened his mouth to retort, but could come up with no response as it dawned on him that the boy had, over the course of the summer, broken his collar bone and received no treatment for it. "Mister Potter?" He prompted, voice soft but no less commanding than it would be in class.

"I fell."

The two adults stared. It was a lie, everyone present knew it, and the silence dragged on which, in Severus' experience, would make even the most determined of Slytherins baulk under the pressure and add further lies to the story to make it seem more believable… until it became clear that it was a lie.

Harry, however, stood his ground and offered no further information for the mediwitch or Potions Master to analyse. " It seems, Potter, that I was right in my earlier assessment," he drawled, barely containing his fury at being defied as he was, "even arcane treatment is below you. What would be suitable for the revered Boy Who Lived, hm? Divine treatment?"

"Thank you, Severus," the matron's quiet tone was easily marked as a dismissal, and the Potions Master did not need any further encouragement. His black cape billowing about him as he strode through the doors from the medical wing.

Madam Pomfrey watched the man until he turned down the corridor before returning her attention to her patient, who had surprisingly turned to watch his professor leave too. "Harry." Slowly, ever so slowly, the boy's head turned until brilliant green eyes locked onto warm brown… brown eyes which were brimming with apology and sympathy, "Harry, I need to re-break that bone."

* * *

It wasn't until the next morning that Madam Pomfrey released Harry from the Hospital Wing, with the strict warning that there would be hell to pay if he were to wait again until another forced him to seek medical assistance.

Entering the Great Hall for the end of breakfast, Professor McGonagall had just reached the end of the house table, giving out new schedules for the year. By chance, she glanced her final student, "Ah, Potter! There you are." The woman approached him, holding out a piece of parchment, "Your timetable, Potter."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry muttered, eyes downcast as he took the parchment from her hand, not even bothering to look it.

His Head of House examined him for a moments before speaking again, "I trust Madam Pomfrey didn't let you leave without breakfast?" The boy nodded, "Of course. Well, I shall see you in forth period, Mister Potter."

As he watched the woman leave, Harry was accosted by his two best friends. "Harry!" A worried Hermione was like a force of nature, and Harry stumbled back a few paces as he tried to steady himself under the full weight of the girl's hug, which she leapt into.

Her arms constricted tightly around his neck and it took him a few moments to realise that she was waiting to hug him back. Tentatively, he reached up and patted her back.

"Where were you, Harry? I didn't hear from you all summer, and Ron said the same. Then we couldn't find you on the train and you weren't at the Feast last night… where were you? The teachers wouldn't tell him anything! Are you alright?" Hermione refused to let go and Harry hung limp in her grip, waiting.

"I'm fine, Hermione." He tried to force as much enthusiasm into his voice as possible, and it seemed that his friends were deceived, even if he thought his tone sounded flat. Aware of Ron's eyes on him, he forced a smile onto his lips. "Hi, Ron."

"You alright, mate?" Harry nodded slightly in response, half-hearted, but he got away with it, given his neck movement was limited with a limpet in the form of Hermione wrapped around him. Taking the hint, the redhead stepped forward and placed his hand on the girl's shoulder, "He's okay, Hermione, you can let him go now."

The witch disentangled herself, but would not accept that simple answer. Harry sighed, "I missed the train, Hermione, that's all. I tried to make it, but the barrier had already closed." He considered expanding on it, but he knew that his friends were worked up enough.

"But what about… why didn't you reply to our letters, Harry?" Harry blinked - he'd never received any letters. Staring at the expressions on the faces of his two best friends, he saw nothing but their genuine concern. They _had_ tried to contact him. He wondered if it was because of the Dursleys.

A small pit at the bottom of his stomach was kindled, hatred for the people he had been forced to live with. His summer had, for the most part, been much easier than the ten years before being accepted to Hogwarts; the Dursleys didn't know that magic was forbidden in underage wizards, and Harry had no plans to correct their beliefs.

It was also easier now for him to rationalise their hatred of him, where before, a child who craved love, he was never given a reason. It just was. A year down the line, Harry was still trying to come to terms with the fact that there wasn't anything inherently wrong with him, that he wasn't a _freak_.

But that slow progress had drawn to a halt following his participation in the events of the end of the last school year.

"Hedwig wasn't allowed out," was all he said in reply, and the Boy Who Lived watched as his two best friends exchanged a glance before turning back and nodding in reply. They would ignore the fact that the same owl who delivered letters could carry a reply back. All, it seemed, would pretend like they accepted this truth.

"C'mon, we don't want to be late for Herbology," Ron muttered, surprising both of his friends with his concerns about class work. Hermione needed no encouragement, though Ron looped a hand around the top of Harry's arm and help on to it as he steered his friend out of the Great Hall.


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Hello all! Long time no speak! I'm sorry about the delay - been focusing on life a little bit more, now that I've started my Masters. But now that I've settled into a bit of a routine now, I feel like I'm going to be able to get back to a more regular pattern of updating. Also I'm going to try to be better at posting longer chapters for you all to enjoy, though I don't know how well that's going to go... Anyway.. this one's a pretty boring one, but it's important to get some facts out. I know that anyone reading fanfiction probably knows HP pretty well and doesn't need to be told about the muggleborns etc, but for the sake of making a story a story, I feel it's important to put it in here. Also not a fan of Lockhart, so don't imagine you'll be seeing much of him. Now.. I need to work out how to get Harry to a convenient location to hear the Basilisk for the first time, as he has no detention o:

Please review, as always, and thank you for sticking with me so far!

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

* * *

Harry's day began quietly, with only a few students asking where he had been the night before. When the only answer that could be extricated from the second year student was a simple, dull, "Missed the train," the questioned stopped coming and Harry was left in peace. Until Herbology, where he was met with a tall, blond and impeccably dressed man, who insisted to an apparently irate Professor Sprout that he had to borrow Harry for a moment.

He was saved, however, by Professor Sprout's foul mood, as she refused to let a student miss the first lesson of the year. "He is scheduled to have Defence Against the Dark Arts later today, Gilderoy, you may speak to him then." Harry, along with the rest of the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, were quickly ushered into the greenhouse before the man had a chance to protest. A quick glance at the glazed expressions on all of the girls – who were distinctly reluctant to enter the greenhouse - told Harry that this was the new professor who had half of the school population fawning over him.

The man was forgotten when the lesson began and Harry, paired with a Hufflepuff by the name of Justin Finch-Fletchley, merely nodded and grunted in reply to the monologue introduction that the other boy supplied as they prepared for re-potting the mandrakes. In a way, Harry was glad that he was not required to contribute to the conversation. But, not for the first time, it occurred to him that simple conversational norms were lost when speaking to him; everyone already seemed to know more about his life than he did, so they never asked.

Notwithstanding Madam Pomfrey's insistence that Harry had to eat a large breakfast before she would discharge him from the Hospital Wing, a morning of physical labour in Herbology and touch calculations in Transfiguration left Harry famished as he approached the Great Hall for lunch. Despite this hunger, Harry pushed his food around his plate, barely able to stomach a few bites.

After ten months of eating well, the muggle-raised boy's stomach had once again had to suffer through two months of exceedingly poor nutrition, making it even more difficult for him to eat anything heavy… which most of the food was.

"You alright, mate?" Harry glanced up to see Hermione and Ron staring at him, both with varying degrees of concern. He nodded and turned back to his food, forcing himself to take another bite of his chicken. When he realised that his friends hadn't resumed their conversation, Harry glanced up again. He sighed, and opened his mouth to make some bland reply.

"All right, Harry? I'm… I'm Colin Creevey," The three friends turned to see a very small, dirty-brown haired boy, who was holding what appeared to be a muggle camera. The boy, presumably the year below him and in claret-lined robes, was staring at Harry as though transfixed, and the moment Harry looked at him, he went bright red. "I'm in Gryffindor, too. D'you think - would it be all right if - can I have a picture?" he said without taking a single breath, raising the camera hopefully.

Harry blinked. "A picture?"

"So I can prove I've met you," said the boy eagerly, edging further forward. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you've still got a lightning scar on your forehead and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures will move."

Harry turned to his friends as the boy continued to prattle on, zoning out briefly. He didn't need to hear about how amazing and great he was for avoiding death before he could walk.

Ron and Hermione were both staring at Colin Creevey with the same disbelieving expression, though Ron clearly thought this was more funny than Hermione did. Glancing around, a few other students were also a little shocked. "…maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?"

"Signed photos? You're giving out signed photos, Potter?" The Boy Who Lived closed his eyes. Which god had he angered to deserve Draco Malfoy walking past at that exact moment? The Slytherin's loud, incredulous voice echoed around the Great Hall, attracting the attention of even more students. "Everyone line up!" Malfoy roared to the crowd. "Harry Potter's giving out signed photos!"

"No, I'm not," It was only Hermione's hand resting on his arm, hidden to any observer, that stopped Harry from rising from his seat. "Shut up, Malfoy."

"You're just jealous," piped up Colin, and Harry's anger rose ever so slightly; surely anyone with two brain cells to rub together would know what _not_ to say.

It seemed that Malfoy agreed with Harry, as he scoffed, "Jealous?" He was no longer shouting, aware that he had already captured the attentions of his audience.

As with everything that he did, Malfoy's tone was clipped and precise. Harry remembered that Ron had once told him how some old Pureblood families taught their children etiquette and elocution from a young age.

From where he was sitting, he could see why the muggle-born Creevey took a step back as Malfoy turned his cool gaze and scathing tone on the younger boy. "Of what? A fifteen month old infant breathing – and quite probably crying – as a spell goes wrong? Harry Potter was too young to even understand the concept of violence, let alone that it existed in the world. Whatever happened that night had nothing to do with him and, personally, I don't think getting your head cut open makes youa that special."

No one spoke, though secretly Harry agreed with what had just been said. Many wizards believed that Harry had actually destroyed Voldemort that night. He didn't know if he could cope with inadvertently killing two people in such a short time.

"Eat slugs, Malfoy," said Ron angrily. Harry wasn't sure if he was glad or annoyed that his best friend felt the need to defend his honour for him. Crabbe, who had been guffawing stupidly with Goyle at their leader's words, stopped laughing and started rubbing his knuckles in a menacing way. Ron, with a table between them, did not back down.

"Now now, Weasley," sneered Malfoy, his gaze only flickering over briefly to give the red-headed boy a once over, as if he wasn't worth the time or energy. Disgust seeped into his expression as he turned away, even though his words were still directed at him. "What's my opinion compared to thousands of others?"

The Slytherin gestured around the room, giving the trio a chance to realise just how many people were now listening in. "I'm sure Potter won't mind taking a picture with you too, and I'm sure it will be worth a fortune. He turned back to Ron, brow raised and eyes wide in mock incredulity, "unless you _agree_ with me?"

Ron whipped out his spellotaped wand, a spell on the tip of his tongue –

"Fifteen points from Gryffindor, Mister Weasley." Professor Sinistra barked as she swept through the middle of the group. "This is a dining hall, not a coliseum. Everyone return to your seats before I dock more points."

* * *

Harry had risked the further removal of points that afternoon as he grabbed his bag and quickly strode from the hall without a word to his friends or to the Creevey boy. From then on, he made a big effort to avoid the first year and, when he wasn't successful, politely ignoring Colin by citing some urgent homework assignment which had to be completed.

Gilderoy Lockhart, whom he had met in Defence Against the Dark Arts just after lunch on that first day, turned out to be everything that Draco Malfoy claimed to despise in Harry Potter. Harry sincerely hoped that he wasn't as vapid and conceited as his new professor.

But it wasn't as easy to avoid Malfoy, who seemed to have devoted his summer to perfecting an almost Snape-like sarcasm.

Harry soon stopped being the focal target, however, when Malfoy realised that only Ron seemed to rise to his bait. Not that his insults changed, for the hot-headed preteen would defend nigh anyone against the blond.

The first spell wasn't fired until some two weeks in, away from the prying eyes of teachers on the Quidditch Pitch. Having listened to Oliver talk strategies for almost two hours, Harry – and quite probably the rest of the team – were quite happy to hand the pitch over, even if it was to the Slytherins.

Leaning on his broom and glancing hungrily at the warmth of Gryffindor Tower in the distance, Harry barely held back his groan as Malfoy made a comment about wealth, something that would surely rile up the youngest Weasley male… and possibly his two brothers.

It came as a surprise to everyone when it was Hermione who returned fire with her own cutting words, "At least no one on the Gryffindor Team had to buy their way in," she said haughtily, though with enough bite to wipe the smirk off of Malfoy's face, "they got in on pure talent."

A flash of anger passed across the aristocrat's face before he schooled his expression once more. "No one asked your opinion," again, the revulsion was evident on the boy's face as he regarded another of the Golden Trio, "you filthy little mudbood."

The reactions of the Gryffindors told Harry enough about the word to know that it was not one that he would be repeating. Even some of the Slytherins present looked slightly uneasy. Amidst the shouts of outrage, Ron had whipped out his wand again, and screamed a curse, only for his broken wand to backfire.

Slugs erupted from Ron's mouth, much to the amusement of the green-clad witnesses. Colin, too, found the whole debacle interesting and funny, "Wow! Can you hold him still, Harry, I'll get a good picture!"

"Get out of the way, Colin!" Harry elbowed the boy out of the way angrily as Hermione muttered something about going to Hagrid's. With one arm each under a shoulder of Ron's, the two lugged him down the hill and were greeted by Hagrid, who instantly collected a copper basin to give to Ron.

"Better out than in," Hagrid patted the boy's back, causing a few slugs to be forced up in quick succession. "Who were yeh tryin' ter curse anyway?" He addressed it at Ron, but the question was clearly aimed at the two who weren't vomiting slugs.

"Malfoy called Hermione something..." was Harry's reply as he looked over to Hermione, who shrugged her shoulders, not knowing what it meant either.

"It was bad," said Ron hoarsely, as the slug-spewing subsided for a moment and he lifted his head to glance around the room. "Malfoy called her 'Mudblood,' Hagrid-" Ron dived out of sight again as a fresh wave of slugs made their appearance.

Hagrid looked outraged. "He didn'!" He practically thundered, causing Hermione and Harry to flinch in their chairs.

"He did," the girl finally replied, and she sniffed, though Harry was sure that his friend was more upset that Ron and Hagrid knew something that she didn't. "But I don't know what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of course-"

"It's about the most insulting thing he could think of," gasped Ron, reappearing from behind the table again. Harry frowned at how pale his friend looked. "Mudblood's a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born… you know, non-magic parents. There are some wizards - like Malfoy's family - who think they're better than everyone else because they're what people call pure-blood." The slugs seemed to be slowing a little, but Ron bowed his head on the basin anyway, groaning.

Hagrid took over. "Mos' wizards nowadays know it doesn' make any difference at all, wha' blood yer have. There's good an' bad in the whole bunch, no matter blood. It's all abou' the skill."

As Hagrid went on to praise Hermione, Harry's mind drifted to Surry, to his aunt and uncle, and their prejudices. Briefly, he wondered if he would prefer to be called a _mudblood_ or a _freak_.


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Hello! As promised, much longer chapter, and we sort of moving quicker through the interaction here. Erm.. more Snape this time and I really hope that I'm doing this wonderfully twisted professor justice. I'm not sure how this is going to work later on, with interaction when Tom appears in the story, but I'm probably never going to write a proper Severitus story so this is a random little interlude where we the see the beginnings of what _might_ be. Might last, might not. Don't know yet.. let me know what you think - want more Snape, or less Snape? But obviously you can see where I'm using him to diverge from the original tale, and he could potentially be quite important later on. Depending on how I feel.

Also I had a reader comment on Ron's broken wand. I completely forgot that the Whomping Willow incident hasn't happened in my re-telling! Erm.. I'll have a look over the chapter, but maybe we'll just pretend that Ron is terrible at spells when mad! Sorry for the error. .

Anywho! I hope you enjoy - this was a fun chapter to write, especially as I now have a clearer idea of where I'm going with this, rather than fumbling around in the dark! Thinking about the future, I'd love to know your views about slash vs non-slash (TMR/HP). I've never done slash (never really done relationships full stop) and don't know if I want to... As always, _please_ spare a few minutes to let me know what you think - even if it's terrible, I'd like to know, so I can make it better!

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

* * *

"Mister Potter." The raven haired boy glanced up from packing his bag to find his potions professor sat behind his desk and regarding him with an expressionless gaze. "Remain behind after class." Harry's brows furrowed in confusion; it was Friday afternoon, and was still very early in the term. He hadn't had a chance to get into trouble yet, so why did Snape want to speak to him?

Ducking his head, the Boy Who Lived returned to packing away his books and equipment. "See you in a bit," he murmured to an equally confused Ron and Hermione before dragging his bag from the work surface and slowly approaching the teachers desk.

Snape was now presumably looking over potions assignments, with his distinctive red pen in his hand. He appeared to ignore Harry, looking up only when the last of the first years had departed and the heavy door had been closed, leaving Harry and the professor alone. He placed his quill down on the desk. "How are you feeling, Potter?"

Harry, ready to fire excuses at the Potions Master, felt his jaw drop open. "What?"

"Pardon."

"Huh?"

Professor Snape gave Harry a hard look. "'What' is not polite in civilised conversation, Mister Potter. Nor is 'huh'. I suggest you use 'pardon' in future interactions." The second year continued to stare, bemused. "You are not a fish, Potter."

Harry's mouth snapped shut at that, his own gaze hardening a little. "Did you ask me to remain after class for any particular reason, or is it just my habits that you disapprove of, sir?"

The older man glared at his insolent pupil, who had the grace to blush. "It seems that, once again, you are the topic of much discussion, Mister Potter. But this time it had nothing to do with your incredible defeat against He Who Must Not Be Named or, indeed, your prowess on a broomstick."

The man paused, stood up and rounded the desk, beginning to pace in front of the young Gryffindor. Harry remained silent, refusing to rise to the obvious bait that his professor's scathing tone left dangling in front of him. "No, this is related to your schooling, with particular attention to your wand work. Now, it is my understanding that in the year just gone you showed just as much aptitude for your other classes as you did for Potions… that is to say, very little."

Incensed, Harry opened his mouth to dispute Snape's bold statement, but the overgrown bat continued without glancing down at the boy once. "However, I'm sure we can both agree that, whilst your work is mediocre at best, you are by no means the worst student in your year group." The boy frowned once again – was that… a _compliment_? "It is a debate among the staff as to why last year you were so willing to participate in your classes, yet now you make a half-hearted attempt at wandwork in Charms and Transfiguration… and I doubt it's even worth discussing your atrocious efforts in my class."

"Sir I…" Before he even began, Harry had trailed off in his response. There was no witty comeback, no anger inside him to fuel a heated answer and storm out. Professor Snape was… well whether he was right or not was beside the point. The fact was that he was reasonable in his belittling comments, and the bemusement surrounding that dichotomy was what stopped Harry.

After waiting for a few moments, the Potions Master continued, "Madam Pomfrey suggested that perhaps the damage sustained over the summer when you… _fell_ … requires some more attention. Has your shoulder been causing you any pain, Potter?"

Harry hesitated. Then nodded. "Yes, sir." Snape was silent for a moment, then asked why he had not spoken to the matron, or to his Head of House. "I didn't want to bother anyone," was the muttered reply.

Silence reigned for a moment longer, then Harry watched as Snape strode past him and approached one of the many cabinets in the potions classroom, opened it and stared inside. Finally he picked up a small jar, containing a cream, viscous substance. "Madam Pomfrey repaired all damage to the bone in your shoulder, but it is possible that the weeks of poor healing have compromised the muscles in the surrounding area. This will…"

Snape's voice, the soft baritone that it was, faded from Harry's hearing as a second, much higher-pitched voice, appeared to echo around the room. The disembodied voice was cold, chilling almost, a voice of breathtaking, ice-cold venom. Yet it was silvery and modulated… pleasant to listen to. " ** _Come… come to me… let me rip you… let me tear you… let me kill you…_** "

"What?" The Gryffindor said loudly, glancing around in search of the speaker.

"Stop moving around like a demented chicken, Potter!" Snape snapped, and Harry spun to see his professor. "I said you only need to reach a single finger in, a small dollop of the cream morning and night until you run out should suffice."

"No," said Harry frantically, waving away Snape's words and gesturing about at the ceiling (for that was where is had seemed to sound the clearest to him). "That voice!"

The Slytherin's eyes narrowed as he watched his pupil once again glance around wildly. "Mind the cauldrons, Potter. The only people here are you and me, as it has been for the past ten minutes."

"No. It was high pitched - that voice that said-" Vivid green eyes, wide and wild, turned back to the potioneer, his mouth moving but no words coming out, until he finally asked, "didn't you hear it?"

"Other than the hysterical clamour of a Gryffindor in my classroom? I hear only the gentle hissing of a simmering potion." Snape closed the doors to the cabinet and stepped back over to his pupil. He offered the small jar to Harry who, resigned, accepted it. The Potions Master regarded the boy for a few moments longer, and Harry had trouble placing the emotions that he saw flying across the man's face. "Dinner will be served by now, and your friends will be worried about where their ringleader has run off to. I suggest you join them directly."

"Yes Sir," Harry nodded, picking his bag up off the floor, he thanked his professor and left the classroom, navigating the corridors with ease until he emerged from the staircase to the dungeons and entered the Great Hall.

Hermione and Ron were easy to spot, and he dropped himself into the saved seat beside them. "What did Snape want, then ?" Ron asked, spraying tiny, chewed up pieces of chicken all over his friends.

"Oh, just complaining about my appalling efforts in his class. The usual." He grinned at his best friend, secretly surprised at how easy the lie had come to him. Though he supposed it was bordering on the truth.

Hermione, in regular fashion, sighed, "Harry, you really must try, everything is so much harder than it was last year. We're expected to know-"

"I know, Hermione. I know." He interrupted, not in the mood for a second lecture. Grabbing a serving spoon, Harry dished a potion of food onto his plate. "Look guys…" he hesitated, then steeled himself, knowing that his two friends would believe him, or at least support him.

Keeping his voice low so that those around the table (particularly Ginny, who was sat quietly on the other side of Hermione, pushing her own food around her plate in much the same way that Harry was) could not overhear what was being said, Harry told his two friends exactly what he had heard.

"And Snape said he couldn't hear it?" said Ron, frowning. "D'you think he was lying? It would be just like him, you know. Trying to make you think you were mad or something."

"Ron!" Hermione's indignant, shrill voice caught the attention of a few students sat around them, and she blanched at the look that she received from her two friends. "Professor Snape wouldn't do that. Remember last year? We thought the worst of him when we should have been thinking the best."

"Well it still doesn't change the fact that he's a horrible git who hates Harry," Ron replied without missing a beat. "Alright, alright well… I dunno. It makes no sense, though. Even someone invisible would've had to open the door."

"I know," said Harry, returning to look at his food. He had barely touched it, but he knew that he would not be able to stomach another bite, as the words of the clear, cold voice echoed around in his mind. "I don't get it either."

* * *

The final days of September bled into October, which passed in a blur of sleepless nights and crisp, windy days. The cream worked well enough, and Harry's wandwork was back up at the level it had been, even slowly improving. It was also easier now to sit on a broom.

Potions, too, had seen a marked improvement, much to Professor's Snape's surprise. Without giving any thought to his movements, Harry had ended up sitting at a table next to Neville, who gaped along with the rest of the class, the first time it happened: no one made the intentional decision to sit next to the dangerous potioneer.

After a few hiccups along the way, however, and many well aimed remarks at the pair from Snape, the two settled into a routine and began to work quite well together, consistently producing a potion that was as close to the target as most other attempts in the room.

Neville, with his green fingers, coached Harry on proper slicing. And Harry… well Harry had no natural talent for potions that he could perceive, but the two of them were a united front against the Potions Master and that seemed to ground them both a little.

Snape, for his part, had mellowed out some over the holidays. Or… at least Harry no longer found himself provoked as often by the dungeon bat's words. Sometimes he wasn't even listening, other times, try as he might, he could not muster the fortitude to care. That was probably the scariest, when he worked methodically through the instructions on the board in silence.. he wanted desperately to defend his father's honour, or his own.

But most of all, he felt that he deserved it.

And that was part of the reason for why he accepted, without argument, a detention from Filch for traipsing mud through the castle a second time. It was a weird sensation of masochistic pleasure and resignation when he learnt that the detention would be served with Professor Snape at the same time as the Hallowe'en Feast.

Without any real feeling in his words, he apologised to Nearly Headless Nick for making the same mistake in the space of a week and, thus, not being able to attend his deathday party. Secretly, Harry was glad that he might be able to spend the evening in silence, with only his thoughts for company.

Holding onto promises that Ron would save him a piece of pudding to eat in the dormitory later that night, he departed down the stairs to the dungeons and knocked on the Slytherin Head's office door. "Enter." With a creak, the heavy door opened slowly as Harry pushed his weight onto it. "You're late, Potter."

 _By two minutes, if that._ "Sorry, sir…"

The man waved his wand, causing a plate full of simple sandwiches to appear on a table in the corner of the room, "your dinner, when you decide you break for some food." Harry nodded, praying to any god who would listen that none of them had cucumber in them. "Tonight you will be assisting me in sorting through old school records. I have no need of the potions grades of students who left this school thirty years ago."

Rounding his desk, Snape picked up a cardboard box and brought it over to place on the floor at Harry's feet. "Unfortunately, my predecessor was not the most organised of people. I have yet to discern a pattern in his filing system. Until I discover that, you have the delightful task of manually filtering through the records and sorting them into piles by year."

Whilst it wasn't cleaning cauldrons like he had expected to be doing, once he got the hang of it this task was just as monotonous. Checking the date in the top left corner, he would add it to any one of his growing number of piles spread all around him.

Lost in his own thoughts, Harry skimmed over the rest of the writing on each piece of parchment. A few times, he would inadvertently pause on the name, and this most recent time, his breath caught as he started at the parchment.

Minutes must have ticked by before, "I don't hear the rustle of paper, Mister Potter." But Harry did not respond. "Have you lost all cognitive ability, Potter? Put the parchment onto the relevant pile and move on."

"What time did my parents die, Sir?"

There was a very pregnant pause, and Harry looked away from the parchment with _Lily Evan_ 's name scrawled across the top, to see his professor's black eyes boring into his. Finally the man stood and approached Harry, who handed over the parchment into his outstretched hand. Snape stared at the record for a moment, his fingers tracing lightly for a moment over the grades, his face softening as if lost in thought.

"No, wait-"

But it was too late: the parchment had been incinerated in the Potions Master's hand. "It's late, Potter, have some dinner before returning to your dormitory." Snape whirled around returned to his desk, picking up his quill and bending his head back down to his work.

"Sir-"

"On Samhain, Mister Potter. They were killed during the early hours of November 1st, eleven years ago." Snape wasn't even pretending to be busy anymore, his fingers massaging his temple.

The room fell silent once again as Harry obediently ate a few of the sandwiches left out. "You may go, Potter."

And then Harry heard it.

" ** _…rip… tear… kill…_** " It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice he had heard at the end of the Potions class all those weeks ago. Without another word, parents' death forgotten, Harry tore from the room, deaf to Snape's shouted protests.

Arriving out of thr dungeons, Harry stumbled to a halt, hands resting against the stone wall as he pressed his ear up against the coarse surface, listening with all his might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway.

"Harry!" Hermione's voice drifted down the corridor and he glanced up to see his two best friends approaching. "You've finished detention! We just left the Sir Nicolas' Deathday Party, and thought we might catch pudding at the Feast… Harry what're you-"

"It's that voice again - shut up a minute -"

" ** _…soo hungry… for so long…_** "

Hermione opened her mouth to speak again, probably to tell him that there was no voice, like Snape had, but Harry knew better. "Listen!" he insisted urgently, and Ron and Hermione froze, eyes wide and frightened watching him.

" ** _…kill… time to kill…_** " The high, light voice was growing fainter, much as it had the other day, and Harry stared upwards, certain that it was above them and… somehow moving through the solid floors as it went.

"This way!" He shouted, and he began to run, glad of his night time wanderings for once, and his good knowledge of the castle; he knew the fastest routes to get where he wanted to be and, with almost everyone else still in the Great Hall, he was not slowed.

"Harry, slow down, what're we-"

"SHH!" Harry strained his ears. Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, he heard the voice: " ** _...I smell blood… I SMELL BLOOD!_** "

Harry's stomach dropped and his blood ran cold through his body. The hairs on his arms and neck stood on edge and his shirt scratched against his suddenly all to sensitive skin. "It's going to kill someone!" He all but screamed, wasting no time to take off running once again, taking the steps three at a time. Blood started pumping through his ears, making it more difficult for the Boy Who Lived to hear the high, terrifying voice.

Finally he came to a halt in an empty second floor corridor, having lost the voice. Glancing around frantically, Harry barely registered the heavy footfalls of his two best friends behind him. "Harry, what was that all about?" Ron asked, panting heavily. "I couldn't hear anything-"

"Look!" Both Harry and Ron turned to follow Hermione's pointed finger as she exclaimed loudly.

On the dark stone wall, dimly lit by the flickering light of open-flame torches, they noticed markings. Slowly approaching, the three friends were finally able to read what turned out to be large-lettered writing.

 _The chamber of secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware._

As they edged nearer, their shoes slapping through the puddle on the floor by the wall, Harry saw a dark shadow beneath the writing. It took a moment for him to realise that it was the caretaker's cat. Stiff as a board, her eyes were frozen wide.

Seconds passed as Harry stared at the feline, a strange mix of morbid fascination and horror at what he was seeing. Ron pulled him out of his stare as he said, "let's get out of here."

Blankly, Harry nodded and took a step away, still staring at the cat. "Harry, c'mon." Ron tugged urgently on Harry's sleeve.

But the trio had barely made it a few steps before the shadows of hundreds of students approached; evidently the Hallowe'en Feast had just ended. Frantically, the glanced down both ends of the corridor, but they were cornered, with students approaching from both ends.

With full stomachs, the students were high on the excitement of the evening, but the giggles and chatter died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood alone, in the middle of the corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students pressing forward to see the grisly sight.

What's going on here? What's going on?" Harry's eyes closed and he breathed deeply. Of all the people to come across the scene… Argus Filch pushed his way through the crowd, flinging threats here and there as the curious children didn't move instantly out of the way. Then he saw Mrs. Norris and fell back, clutching his face in horror.

"My cat! My cat! What's happened to Mrs. Norris?" he shrieked. As the three who stood out, his eyes landed instantly on the trio of Gryffindors. "You!" he screeched, the voice almost as high pitched as the voice Harry had been following. "You! You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll -"

"Argus!" A number of professors, including the Headmaster, had been attracted to the noise. Taking in the scene, in seconds, Dumbledore's face turned grave and the crowd parted instantly as he swept forward and release Mrs. Norris from where she was hanging. "Come with me, Argus," he said to Filch. "You, too, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger."

Lockhart stepped forward eagerly. "My office is nearest, Headmaster, just upstairs. Please feel free to use it."

"Thank you, Gilderoy," said Dumbledore. The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart hurried after Dumbledore; as did Professors McGonagall and Snape.

Entering the office, Lockart flourished his wand, muttering an incantation. A few seconds passed before the wicks of the candles around flickered briefly before giving up. After a more focesful attempt, they flared into life. Dumbledore lay the frozen cat on one of the many tables and began to examine her. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool of candlelight, watching.

McGonagall and Dumbledore were bent over the feline, noses practically pressed against its filthy, matted fur. Lockhart stood to the side, bouncing on his toes with an air of self-importance. Snape, however, was regarding Harry with a calculating expression. The boy held the other's gaze for a moment before casting his eyes to the floor.

"It was definitely a curse that killed her, probably the Transmogrifian Torture. I've seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn't there, I know the very counter-curse that would have saved her." Speaking without even looking at the cat, Lockhart's comments were punctuated by Filch's dry, racking sobs.

The Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor continued to rattle on with some tale, but Harry was paying no attention, his stomach in a tight knot. Breathing deeply, he feared that the meagre dinner he had eaten earlier might reappear.

At last Dumbledore straightened up. "She's not dead, Argus," he said gently, glancing over to the hysterical caretaker. Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of murders he had prevented, eyes wide.

"She has been Petrified," said Dumbledore, and none in the room even acknowledged Lockhart's exclamation that he agreed with the Headmaster. "But how, I cannot say..."

"Ask him!" shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and tearstained face to Harry.

"No second year could have done this," said Dumbledore firmly. "It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced-"

"He did it, _they_ did it!" Filch spat, his pock-marked face purpling. "They were there first! None of them were at dinner!"

Harry remained silent, still not moving his eyes from the stained patch on the stone floor that he had been staring at resolutely for the entire conversation. "I can vouch for Mister Potter's absence. He was serving detention with me," murmured Snape from the shadows, and Harry's eyes snapped up in surprise. The man was actually defending him? "A detention that you yourself handed out, Argus."

"However," he said, the man's black eyes boring into Harry's. The Boy got the distinct impression that the Potions Master could see into his very soul. "But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. It does not explain the whereabouts of Mister Weasley or Miss Granger. And Potter left my office at remarkable speed."

Harry remained silent as the other to fell over themselves to explain about the deathday party. "There were hundreds of ghosts there, sir! They'll tell you we were there-"

"But why not join the feast afterward?" said Snape, his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. His gaze had still not left the bright green of his most hated student. "Why go up to that corridor?"

"We met Harry as he was leaving the dungeons and…" Ron and Hermione looked at their friend.

He said nothing, finally glancing away and over to the table, where the cat lay petrified. He knew. It was obvious that Snape had connected the two circumstanced in which Harry had acted strangely, gazing about the room wildly. Harry didn't know why the Potions Master was remaining silent about it. "We were tired and wanted to go to bed," he tried eventually.

The silence dragged out, but Harry refused to look up, nor add to his answer. "Possibly not a lie, Potter… but hardly the entire truth. Headmaster, I might suggest the three are deprived of certain privileges until they are ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel Mister Potter should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is ready to be honest."

"Really, Severus," Professor McGonagall spoke for the first time, and her tone was sharp, one which brooked no argument. "I see no reason to stop the boy playing Quidditch. This cat wasn't hit over the head with a broomstick. There is no evidence at all that Potter has done anything wrong."

Glancing up once more to look at the other professors, Harry say that Dumbledore was giving Harry a searching look. For the second time that evening, Harry felt like his mind and soul were on display to the older wizards.

"Innocent until proven guilty, Severus," he said firmly.

"My cat has been Petrified!" Flich stepped forward, pointing a shaking finger at the cat and shrieked, his eyes popping as spittle reigned down on all who were standing too close. "I want to see some punishment!"

"We will be able to cure her, Argus," said Dumbledore patiently. "Professor Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made that will revive Mrs Norris."

"I'll make it," Lockhart bounced forward, clearly desperate to engage in the conversation once more. "I must have done it a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep-"

"Excuse me," said Snape icily, his gaze finally leaving the raven-haired boy to glare at the blond, "but I believe I am the Potions Master at this school."

After an awkward moment, where a number of those present tried to hide their grins, The Headmaster turned to the trio of students. "You may go," Dumbledore said quietly to Harry, Ron, and Hermione.


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Hello again! Thank you all for reading this story - makes me feel so happy to see how many hits/faves/follows/reviews I've received! I'm going to try to make a bit more progress on this story, I think year 2 is important for set-up, but we all know how it goes, and year 3 is where things really start to get interesting. I hope none of you are bored yet :/ With this in mind, you'll notice that some "important" scenes are skimmed over with nothing more than a mention, where others change relatively substantially. Anyway, on with the story!

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

* * *

Rumours were rife over the early days in November, following the petrification of Filch's cat. More people than ever ventured into the library in search of answers, curious to find out more about the Chamber of Secrets.

Hermione, frustrated that she couldn't find any substantial information in her favourite room of the castle, dragged Ron and Harry back to the scene of the crime during dinner to act as sleuth for the evening one night, but they found nothing, except a furious Percy.

Still desperate, the bushy-haired witch even went as far as to interrupt the monotone voice of Professor Binns in their History of Magic class in order to find out more.

Knowledge that it was Salazar Slytherin's secret haven, built to contain a monster which would purge the school of muggle-born witches and wizards caused more than a little fear and animosity between the founder's house and the other three.

"Well it's obviously going to be a Slytherin student," Ron said loudly to his friends as they left the class and headed towards the Great Hall for dinner. "They're probably all in on it. Can't remember seeing any green robes when we found Mrs Norris. They knew to stay away from the scene of the crime."

"There were no Hufflepuffs there either, Ron," Harry replied more quietly as he hitched his bag higher onto his shoulder. "You've seen people from those two houses leave after dinner. They go down into the dungeons or to the basement, so their common rooms must be down there."

Ron opened his mouth to argue but Hermione butted in, "Harry's right. It would have been more suspicious if they had been on the second floor that night."

"Well it's not gonna be a Hufflepuff! They're as good and nice as they come. Wouldn't hurt a fly." Ron had now lowered his voice, but they were still catching the attention of others walking past them. "Slytherins though… they're as evil as they come."

As Ron continued to speak, Harry found himself immensely glad that he had never told anyone where the Hat really wanted to sort him. The House of cunning and ambition had become infamous for its darker ties and outputs.

Was it something that they learnt while studying here? Or was it something that was already innate and encouraged to be developed? Was evilness something that could lie dormant? Was it an action that was done for the right reason? Was murder even something that could be justified?

He was glad that he hadn't told his friends the full story of what happened at the end of last year either.

"…No, Hermione, you don't see it! He's evil! Look at what he called you. He could have done it, I'm telling you."

"He's _twelve_! No twelve year old is capable of murder, even if he is a bigot."

"His whole family has been in Slytherin as far as you can go back. Both sides, Malfoy and Black, two families which are as dark as they come. Only one of them wasn't a Slytherin, and he was the worst of the lot." Harry, staring blankly ahead, missed the nervous side-long glance that Ron sent his way.

"You met his father, Hermione. He's definitely evil enough. They could've had the key to the Chamber of Secrets for centuries!" said Ron. "Handing it down, father to son…"

"Well," said Hermione cautiously, "I suppose it's possible…"

"But how do we prove it?" They sat down at the Gryffindor table and for the first time, Ron didn't instantly load his plate up with food. Instead, he leaned in closer and lowered his voice even further.

"There might be a way," said Hermione slowly, dropping her voice still further with a quick glance along the table to where Percy sat, though he seemed occupied with trying to get Ginny to eat something. "Of course, it would be difficult. And dangerous, very dangerous. We'd be breaking about fifty school rules, I expect-"

"If, in a month or so, you feel like explaining, you will let us know, won't you?" Ron's tone was irritable as he perched on the edge of the bench.

"Well isn't it obvious," replied Hermione coldly. Harry, returning to give the conversation his full attention, shook his head with Ron. "What we'd need to do is to get inside the Slytherin common room and ask Malfoy a few questions without him realizing it's us."

"But that's impossible," Harry said replied softly. Truth be told, he couldn't believe that Malfoy was the one causing all of this anyway.

"No, it's not," said Hermione. "All we'd need would be some Polyjuice Potion."

"Poly-what now?" pushed Ron as he finally gave into his stomach's loud demands for food and dished out some beef stew and potatoes onto his plate. Harry did the same, though took a much smaller portion, before pouring some pumpkin juice for each of them.

Hermione let out an exasperated sigh. "Honestly, you two. Professor Snape mentioned it in class a few weeks ago. It transforms you into somebody else." The girl took a sip of her drink as she looked at her two friends. "Think about it! We could change into three of the Slytherins. No one would know it was us. Malfoy would probably tell us anything."

"This Polyjuice stuff sounds a bit dodgy to me," said Ron through a mouthful of potatoes. "What if we were stuck looking like three of the Slytherins forever? Merlin, what if it's Crabbe or Goyle?!"

"It wears off after a while," said Hermione, waving her hand impatiently. "But getting hold of the recipe will be very difficult. Snape said it was in a book called Moste Potente Potions and it's bound to be in the Restricted Section of the library."

The three shared dark looks, knowing how difficult it would be to get a teacher to sign a permission slip for them to take a book out of the Restricted Section. Harry also realised that, if something were to go wrong, their names would be traced to the book.

"I'll get it tonight," he murmured as he returned to his meal.

The next morning, just before the Quidditch game, Harry gave the book to Hermione, who perused it hungrily. A small argument broke out between Hermione and Ron over how long the potion would take to brew, as well as how difficult it would be to procure all of the ingredients.

Harry was glad when Oliver Wood summoned him down to eat a big breakfast, just so that he could avoid the bickering of his friends.

* * *

To say that the game was a disaster would have been an understatement. Gryffindor won, sure, and the look on Malfoy's face was worth it. But Harry's arm was shattered in the process, before being made completely redundant.

Passing out from the shock of watching his arm bend back on itself, as well as the pain from his muscles when Lockhart contorted his limb in such a fashion, Harry woke up in the Hospital Wing about an hour after the match had ended.

Madam Pomfrey wasn't at all pleased. "You should have come straight to me!" she raged, the second Harry woke up, holding up the sad, limp remainder of what, an hour before, had been a working arm. "I can mend bones in a second, but growing them back-"

"You will be able to, won't you?" Asked Ron, who was sat on the end of Harry's bed, eyes flying in horror at the limp arm and the matron.

"I'll be able to, certainly, but it will be painful," Madam Pomfrey threw a pair of pyjamas onto the bed, which Ron picked up and shook out. "You'll have to stay the night, Potter."

Hermione waited outside the curtain drawn around Harry's bed while Ron helped him into his pyjamas. Harry almost refused to wear the shirt properly, such was the pain when they tried to force his boneless arm through the sleeve. "How can you stick up for Lockhart now, Hermione, eh?" Ron called through the curtain as he pulled Harry's limp fingers through the cuff. "If Harry had wanted deboning he would have asked."

"Anyone can make a mistake," said Hermione. "And it doesn't hurt anymore, does it, Harry?"

"He removed the bone," said Harry, wincing as the hand finally popped out the other end. He crawled back into bed, exhausted from the effort. "The nerves are still there…" He winced again as he pulled the covers up and rested his arm gentle down on top of them.

"It's only going to get worse, Potter. You're in for a rough night," Madam Pomfrey said as she removed the curtain, holding out a bottle of Skele-Gro and pouring out a steaming cup full and handing it to him. "Re-growing bones is a nasty business."

The liquid burned Harry's mouth and throat as it went down, making him cough and splutter. Still tut-tutting about dangerous sports and inept teachers, Madam Pomfrey returned to her office with the potion, leaving Ron and Hermione to help Harry gulp down some water.

"At least we won," said Ron, a grin breaking across his face. "That was some catch you made. Malfoy's face... he looked ready to kill..."

Harry smiled weakly at his friends as the stabbing pain in his arm increased ever so slightly. Hermione, ever the insightful one, tugged Ron's robe gently. "We'll let you get some rest, Harry."

Hours and hours later, Harry woke quite suddenly. It was dark, with only the moonlight shining down into the large infirmary. Shifting, the boy gave a small yelp of pain as he rolled onto his arm, which he still didn't have complete control over. His arm now felt full of large splinters.

For a second, he thought that was what had woken him. Then, with a thrill of horror, he realized that someone was sponging his forehead in the dark.

"Get off!" he said frantically, batting his arm until it came into contact with something hard and small. Looking over, he exclaimed, "You!"

It was the same hideous creature who had warned him not to go back to school this year. Its ever were wide and almost luminescent against the moonlight. A single tear was running down his long, pointed nose.

"Harry Potter came back to school," he whined miserably. "Dobby warned and warned Harry Potter. Ah sir, why didn't you heed Dobby? Why didn't Harry Potter go back home when he missed the train?"

Harry gingerly lifted himself up and rearranged his pillows to get a better view of the creature. "What're you doing here?" he asked quietly, his eyes drifting briefly over to where Madam Pomfrey's rooms were. "And how did you know I missed the train?"

Dobby's lip trembled and Harry was seized by a sudden suspicion. "It was you!" he said slowly. "You stopped the barrier from letting me through! I broke my rib because of you!"

"Dobby is very sorry for hurting Mister Harry Potter, sir," said Dobby, nodding his head vigorously, ears flapping. "Dobby hid and watched for Harry Potter and sealed the gateway and Dobby had to iron his hands afterward," he showed Harry ten long, filthy, bandaged fingers.

"But Dobby didn't care, sir, for he thought Harry Potter was safe, and never did Dobby dream that Harry Potter would get to school another way!" He was rocking backward and forward, shaking his ugly head. "Dobby was 'so shocked when he heard Harry Potter was back at Hogwarts, he let his master's dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had, sir."

Harry slumped back onto his pillows, the threat on his lips about strangling the creature dying with some of his anger as he registered what the creature just said. "Your master? What are you?"

Dobby smiled weakly. "I is a House Elf, Harry Potter. Bound to serve a family forever. It is an honour, sir." The elf grinned a toothy grin at the bed-bound boy.

"Are House Elves often so… poorly dressed?" he asked curiously.

"This, sir?" said Dobby, plucking at the pillowcase. "'Tis a mark of the house-elf's enslavement, sir. Dobby can only be freed if his masters present him with clothes, sir. The family is careful not to pass Dobby even a sock, sir, for then he would be free to leave their house forever."

Harry nodded, unaffected but absently wondering about the logic of the wizards who thought it was okay to enslave a sentient being.

Dobby mopped his bulging eyes and began to gesture wildly as he insisted, "Harry Potter must go home! Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to make-"

"Your Bludger?" said Harry sharply, anger rising once more as the filthy creature's eyes grew to the size of oranges. "What d'you mean, your Bludger? You made that Bludger try to kill me?"

"Not kill you, sir, never kill you!" Dobby hastily insisted, apparently shocked that his idol would suggest such a thing. "Dobby wants to save Harry Potter's life! Better sent home, grievously injured, than remain here sir! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt enough to be sent home!"

"Oh, is that all?" retorted Harry angrily, the shooting pain in his arm now diminished somewhat with his attention entirely focused on the appalling creature before him. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you wanted me sent home in pieces?"

"Ah, if Harry Potter only knew!" Dobby as the pathetic water-works started up again and tears stained his ragged-attire. The bed-ridden Gryffindor found it difficult to muster any sympathy for the illogical creature who had put him in the hospital wing. "If he knew what he means to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, we dregs of the magical world! Dobby remembers how it was when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at the height of his powers, sir! We house elves were treated like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like that, sir," he admitted, drying his face on the pillowcase.

"But mostly, sir, life has improved for my kind since you triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Harry Potter survived, and the Dark Lord's power was broken, and it was a new dawn, sir, and Harry Potter shone like a beacon of hope for those of us who thought the Dark days would never end, sit... And now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to happen, are perhaps happening already, and Dobby cannot let Harry Potter stay here now that history is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more-"

Dobby froze, realising what he had just spoken aloud. For a fee seconds he remained like that, before he grabbed the water jug from Harry's bedside table and started hitting himself over the head with it. "Bad Dobby, very bad Dobby!"

"So there is a Chamber of Secrets?" Harry whispered between hits, but the elf, for the most part, ignored him. "And did you say it's been opened before? Tell me, Dobby!"

But the house elf continued. Harry reached forwards and grabbed the jug, attempting to wrestle it away from the creature with his one good arm. It was a struggle, but he managed it. "But I'm not Muggle-born - how can I be in danger from the Chamber?"

"Ah, sir, ask no more, ask no more of poor Dobby," stammered the elf, his eyes huge and luminescent in the dark. "Dark deeds are planned in this place, but Harry Potter must not be here when they happen - go home, Harry Potter, go home. Harry Potter must not meddle in this, sir, 'tis too dangerous -"

"Who is it, Dobby?" Harry said, wrapping his good arm tightly around the jug and looping his wrist through its handle to keep the elf from grabbing it and distracting himself through his self-punishing again. "Who's opened it? Who opened it last time?"

"Dobby can't, sir, Dobby can't, Dobby mustn't tell!" squealed the elf, as he took a few steps back, shaking his head fervently. "Go home, Harry Potter, go home!"

"I'm not going anywhere!" said Harry fiercely, extricating his hand from the jug in order to grab Dobby's filthy clothing and drag him closer. "One of my best friends is Muggle-born; she'll be first in line if the Chamber really has been opened-"

"Harry Potter risks his own life for his friends!" moaned Dobby in a kind of miserable ecstasy. "So noble! So valiant! But he must save himself, he must, Harry Potter must not-" Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering as he turned his head towards the entrance to the infirmary. Harry, taking the elf's cue, strained his ears until he heard the patter of quick footsteps approaching.

"Dobby must go!" breathed the elf, terrified. There was a loud crack, and Harry's fist was suddenly clenched on thin air. For a few moments, he stared blankly at the empty space where the elf used to be. But the footsteps drew ever closer, and he slumped back down onto his pillow and turned, closing his eyes.

The footsteps neared until he was finally able to make out the distinct shuffles or two pairs of feet entering the hospital wing. Cracking his eye open a fraction, he saw the long silvery hair of the Headmaster, who appeared to be carrying one end of what Harry assumed to be a statue. Carrying the other end of the statue was the distinctive tartan of Professor McGonagall. Harry closed his eyes again and listened as they heaved it onto a bed.

"Get Madam Pomfrey," whispered Dumbledore, and Professor McGonagall hurried past the end of Harry's bed out of sight. Harry lay still, pretending to be asleep as he strained his ears once more, but could not make out anything distinctive. He heard urgent voices, then he heard another pair of footsteps joining McGonagall as she returned to Dumbledore: presumably Madam Pomfrey.

He heard a sharp intake of breath. "What happened?" Madam Pomfrey whispered to the other two, and Harry shifted in his bed, allowing one ear to be angled better to listen to the hushed voices. The room fell silent and Harry remained still.

"Another attack," said Dumbledore eventually, after making sure that the other patient in the room was asleep. "Minerva found him on the stairs."

"There was a bunch of grapes next to him," said Professor McGonagall. "We think he was trying to sneak up here to visit Potter."

Harry's stomach gave a horrible lurch; someone had come under risk for his sake… again. Desperately, he wanted to look up, to see who the person on the bed was, but he dared not, under the carefully gaze of three of the most observant staff members at Hogwarts.

"Petrified?" whispered Madam Pomfrey.

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "But I shudder to think... if I hadn't been returning from the dungeons…" Silence fell again, and Harry worked on keeping his breathing steady as he waited. Finally, more movement happened around the petrified student.

"You don't think he managed to get a picture of his attacker?" said Professor McGonagall eagerly, and Harry's thoughts instantly turned to the annoying first year Gryffindor student. The blond one… what was his name? There was no answer, but Harry heard a click as someone opened the back of the camera.

"Good gracious!" said Madam Pomfrey, over the hiss that the camera released. Even the wizards knew that that was not normal in muggle technology. "Melted," said Madam Pomfrey wonderingly. "All melted..."

"What does this mean, Albus?" Professor McGonagall asked after a few seconds of silence.

"It means," began the Headmaster, who sounded every bit his age, "that the Chamber of Secrets is indeed open again."

* * *

 **A/N2:** Okkay so I just wanted to explain that bit about McGonagall returning from the dungeons: in my personal canon, Snape and McGonagall would have a deal on that every time their teams played together, the losing HoH would have to host celebratory drinks. I think that the two were... maybe not quite friends, but I think that McGonagall's no-nonsense attitude would have made her and Snape strong allies with a good, amicable working relationship.


	10. Chapter 9

**A/N:** So it's been a while... a very long while. I don't really know where all that time went. I gotta say, I guess I became a bit disheartened. I think maybe it might have something to do with the lack of instant gratification I have received for spending hours writing each post. Don;t get me wrong, I am so grateful to everyone who has reviewed so far.. I just look at some other stories and see their stats and can't work out what I've done wrong. Perhaps it is a boring story? I know many of you want me to steer away from the original, but I'm trying to make a point here: the butterfly effect of a tiny change can make a massive one. I promise it will diverge. Promise promise.

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

* * *

Harry never saw Colin Creevey the next morning; curtains had been drawn, giving the petrified boy some privacy. However nothing stayed quiet for long in Hogwarts and, much like Mrs Norris, rumours of the next victim spread fast. By dinner, the whole school knew. For Harry's part, he could not feel the same levels of sympathy and sorrow that his housemates were verbalising; the boy had been an idiot. It was somewhat hypocritical - Harry himself had spent many a night wandering the halls after curfew - but he had always felt justified in his late night excursions.

But to visit Harry in the Hospital Wing? Stupid boy.

The young Gryffindor found himself forcing his expression to match those of his housemates and nodding at all the right moments whenever conversation returned to the fate of the foolish boy lying frozen on a bed upstairs.

Ron and Hermione, for their parts, were all the more determined to complete the polyjuice potion. Their desperation was such that the trio had almost been caught by Snape when they raided his private stores during a Potions class. He could not prove it was them who had released the Filibuster firework in the room, but Harry knew that he knew.

The closer they got to Yule, Harry began to wonder why they were even doing it. He could not believe that Malfoy was the Heir of Slytherin. Yes, he would talk the talk and had obscene amounts of prejudice towards anyone inferior to him… which was everyone, in his mind. But there was something not quite falling into place with it.

He had signed up to remain in Hogwarts over the holidays (because he had no where else to go, of course), but at the same time, when conversation returned to tricking Draco into revealing himself, Harry, who had been barely involved in the potion-making process anyway, steeled himself before telling his best friends to do it without him.

"What?!" Ron yelled, and a number of heads in the Common Room turned in curiosity. Hermione kicked the redhead, who continued in a harsh whisper, "Harry, c'mon! We've been working on this for weeks!"

"It's a waste of time, Ron. All of this effort, almost getting expelled to find out what we already know. Draco isn't the Heir of Slytherin." Harry did his best to keep his voice level and calm, despite the small ball of white-hot fire that was slowly growing in his stomach.

"You don't know that, Harry!"

"And even if he is," Harry continued as if Ron hadn't spoken, "What do you plan to do with that knowledge? Walk up to Dumbledore? admit to risking the lives of an entire class of students with that firework? Admit to stealing from a professor? Admit to using that damned potion? The way we're using it, if it's even not illegal then it definitely isn't lawful."

"We won't be punished if we catch him!" The raven-haired by closed his eyes and began to count to ten.

Hermione, always the observant one, remained silent, and just watched him. She had noticed that Harry was not himself. More deflated, but at the same time… more angry. His emotions seemed to have two binaries: apathy or anger. "Leave it, Ron. We can do it alone." Pushing him would not bring him closer again.

"But Hermione -"

"No." She murmured, still watching the other boy, "It probably makes more sense if it's just the two of us anyway. We can become Crabbe and Goyle. I wasn't sure who I was going to clone… so this works out better." It was probably even true.

Ron opened his mouth to retort, but was stopped as Dean and Seamus came rushing over, "Have you guys heard? They're starting a Dueling Club!" said Seamus. "First meeting tonight! I wouldn't mind dueling lessons; they might come in handy one of these days…"

"What, you reckon Slytherin's monster can duel?" mocked Ron, but the expression on his face showed clear interest. "When is it, anyway?"

"Tomorrow night, after dinner, in the great hall. You gonna come?"

Ron nodded, "Could be useful, why not?" he replied, turning Harry and Hermione, the previous conversation all but forgotten as his eyes lit up in excitement. "Let's go!"

* * *

"I wonder who'll be teaching us?" wondered Hermione as they entered the great hall late after dinner, and edged around the excitedly chattering crowd. "Someone told me Flitwick was a dueling champion when he was young - maybe it'll be him?"

"As long as it's not-" Harry began, but his statement was cut short as his eyes widened in horror: Gilderoy Lockhart, looking as resplendently pompous as ever, was climbing the raised platform in the middle of the room, followed by none other than Snape.

Lockhart waved an arm for silence and called, "Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent! Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little dueling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions - for full details, see my published works." Harry rolled his eyes. the more time he spent around this idiot, the less he liked him. His mood worsened when he looked around the room and saw that ever girl - including Hermione - was staring at him with a lovestruck gaze.

"Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape," said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. "He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about dueling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don't want any of you youngsters to worry - you'll still have your Potions Master when I'm through with him, never fear!?

"Wouldn't it be good if they finished each other off?" Ron muttered in Harry's ear. The other boy didn't acknowledge his friend, more interested by the look on the Potions Master's face. Snape's upper lip was curling. Harry wondered why Lockhart was still smiling; if Snape had been looking at him like that he'd have been running as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

The first demonstration was a short one: a quick spell of, "Expelliarmus!" from Snape was all it took for Lockhart to he flown across the room, into the wall and then ended up sprawled on the floor. From the mutterings of the older students, Harry discovered that the spell was just supposed to disarm a student not send him flying. Was Lockhart really that incompetent?

With a groan, Lockhart got unsteadily to his feet, looking frazzled. "Well, there you have it!" He called, though with slightly less bravado than last time, as he tottered back onto the platform. "That was a Disarming Charm - as you see, I've lost my wand - ah, thank you, Miss Brown - yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don't mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy - however, I felt it would be instructive to let them see…"

Snape, though still smiling, was looking murderous. This time, Lockhart had noticed. Turning to the room, he announced that he wanted everyone to practice that spell and quickly began partnering up students closest to him.

Snape began doing the same and, with the same foul expression on his face, reached Harry, Ron and Hermione. He stared at them for a moment, lips curling in distaste. Ron got off easy, but Harry and Hermione were paired with Slytherins.

Malfoy strutted over, smirking. "Face your partners!" called Lockhart, once everyone had been paired up. He had moved back to the platform, but Snape did not move far from Harry and Malfoy. The look on his face clearly indicated that he was going to enjoy watching Harry being bested. "And bow!"

Lockhart then gave the command to begin. What ensued was chaos. Spells from all students flew everywhere - some reached their targets, others were flung far. Harry had no time to worry about what anyone else was doing, though. For the first time, Harry and Malfoy could fire any spell they liked at each other without repercussion. They were not taking the opportunity for granted.

"Stop! STOP!" Screamed Lockhart, and soon the room was back under control. A few Finites were cast on hexes still in effect (Harry being one of them), before Lockhart, a bit red in the face and flustered said, "I think Id better teach you how to block unfriendly spells,"

He glanced at Snape, whose black eyes glinted, and looked quickly. "How about Malfoy and Potter?" said Snape with a twisted smile. Yes, he had definitely enjoyed it.

With a grim expression, a resigned Harry climbed up onto the platform and, as Malfoy spoke to Snape, he turned with a skeptical expression towards Lockhart, waiting for any words of wisdom. As expected, the advice was useless. Harry turned away from him. From the smirk on Malfoy's face, Snape's advice had been much more helpful.

"On the count of three them!" Called Lockhart, "Three… two… one… go!" he shouted.

Before Harry had time to react, Malfoy raised his wand quickly and bellowed, "Serpensortia!" From the Slytherin's wand erupted a large black snake. It landed half way between them. Shocked, Harry took an involuntary step back, his wand hand falling to his side; he didn't know any spells to combat a snake.

His eyes never left the serpent as both teachers stepped forward to remove it. Lockhart got there first and hundreds of eyes in the room all looked up and back down as Lockhart's spell flung the snake a couple of feet into the air, only for it to land again. Now it was angry… and it was going for the nearest person to him.

A Hufflepuff boy, Justin Finch-Fletchley, stood rooted to the spot as the furious snake hissed, large ranges clearly on display. From the way the snake was now coiled, everyone in the room knew that it was posed to strike at any moment.

Without thinking, Harry stepped forward, towards the snake, "Leave him alone!" He called as he raised his wand in his shaking hand. If nothing else, he could cast the freezing charm if he had to. But the plans were unnecessary. The scale backed off, lowering its head and focusing on Harry instead, though he did not look ready to attack anymore. Harry felt the fear fall away from him, knowing the snake would not attack anyone else. He looked up at Justin, grinning, expecting to see Justin looking relieved, or puzzled, or even grateful - but certainly not angry and scared.

"What do you think you're playing at, Potter!?" he shouted, and before Harry could say anything, Justin had turned and stormed out of the hall.

Harry glanced around the room. From his raised position, he could easily see everyone'e expressions. Most were ranging between shocked and scared. Even the Slytherins were looking at him with apprehension.

Snape stepped forward and waved his wand. The snake vanished. Harry stared at the space where the snake had just been and then looked up to meet the Potions Master's eyes. Snape, too, was looking at Harry in an unexpected way: it was a shrewd and calculating look, and Harry didn't like it.

He could hear muttering around the room and Harry took a few steps back, throat dry. "Come on," said Ron's voice in his ear, "Move. Come on, mate." His too best friends flanked him on either side as they left the room; crowds of students moved silently out of the way, creating a path to let them through, all still staring.

The Gryffindor Common Room, thankfully, was empty. Once in the privacy of this space, Ron rounded on Harry, "You're a Parselmouth? What the hell, Harry?"

Harry just stared, unsure of what to say. Hermione, who looked just as clueless, whispered, "What's a Parselmouth?"

"He can talk to snakes!" Ron all but yelled, waving his arm at Harry, who was now resting on the arm of a chair. All of a sudden, his legs felt weaker as the gravity of the situation fell upon him. There was a glint in Ron's eyes which Harry now understood: it was the same look that Draco gave to Hermione.

"Look," Harry began, rubbing his temples as he tried to process what was happening, "What's the problem? If I hadn't told that snake to not attack Justin-"

"Yeah? Well all we heard was snake-language. Hissing, harry, you were bloody hissing at it! You could have been saying anything." Ron's tone was disbelieving and… well it was almost hateful.

"Well I wasn't was I?! D'you want to tell me what's wrong with stopping a massive snake biting off Justin's head?" Harry shouted.

"This is why you're not interested in outing Malfoy, isn't it? This is why you know it's not him." Ron continued on his tirade, his face getting more and more red. "You're the Heir of Slytherin."

"What's that got to do with anything? What does it matter if I can talk to snakes?"

"It matters," whispered Hermione who, despite her muggle-born status, knew much more about the Wizarding World and its customs than Harry did, "because being able to talk to snakes was what Salazar Slytherin was famous for. That's why the symbol of Slytherin House is a serpent."

Harry's jaw dropped in Horror. "What? you don't think I…" Harry's voice trailed off as he took in Ron's expression. That is exactly what he thought.

"I'm going to get rid of the poly juice potion. We don't need it anymore." Ron muttered, eyes narrowed as he stared at Harry for a long moment before turning and stalking from the room.

Hermione stared helplessly after her friend, but made no move to follow him. When she turned around, she saw Harry's expression had darkened. "Do you think the same as me, Hermione?" He whispered.

"I… Harry I don't know," she replied, wringing her hands anxiously, "We didn't grow up in this world. Ron's learnt stories and culture through osmosis… for him, this is all he knows."

"I didn't ask for you to excuse his behaviour, Hermione. I asked if you agreed."

"Well if you're asking if I am scared of you, then no, and I don't think you opened the Chamber of Secrets," she returned haughtily, "Nor do I hate you… not that I think Ron hates you!" she hastily added at the flash in Harry's eyes. "But… well Harry, Salazar Slytherin lived a thousand years go. For all we know, you could be his Heir."


End file.
